Author: Momo Chan

The day the renovations on our future home were finally finished, I walked into the master bedroom and realized the magnolia painting on the wall was gone. In its place hung a painting of sunflowers. When I asked Fion about it, he shrugged it off. “Felicity liked this one better. She had them swap it out.” “It’s not like you care about this kind of stuff anyway.” But that magnolia painting had been painted for me by my mother, right before she died. I stared at the empty space on the wall, silent for a long moment. Fion, assuming I was on the verge of tears, sighed with irritation. “Don’t make a federal case out of a painting, Monica.” “Felicity was just trying to help with the design. She has better taste than you do, honestly.” Later, I would find out it wasn’t just the painting. The walk-in closet shelves had been adjusted to match Felicity’s height. The kitchen cabinets were painted in the creamy off-white she preferred. Even the bedside reading lamps had been swapped out because she mentioned the original ones were “too bright to fall asleep to.” I had thought this was going to be our home. But it turned out I was just the guest who was being allowed to move in. As I slipped the keys into my bag, Fion’s brow furrowed. “What are you trying to pull now?” I shook my head. Outside, the magnolias in the yard were in full bloom. But I suddenly remembered that when petals fall, they do so in complete silence. Just like the way I was letting him go. …… As I zipped my purse, Fion’s hand shot out, his fingers clamping around my wrist. His fingertips were cold against my skin, but his voice carried that familiar, patronizing warmth he used when coaxing a difficult child. “Monica, we’re in the home stretch of the remodel. If you start throwing a fit now, the contractors will have to redo everything. It’s just not worth it.” I looked up at the vibrant, demanding sunflowers. “I’m not asking anyone to redo anything.” Fion relaxed his grip slightly, apparently pleased with my compliance. “Good. Felicity actually stopped by earlier today to check on things. She said having this piece here would make the bedroom feel brighter.” I offered a quiet, empty smile. “How thoughtful of her.” “Well, she understands these things,” Fion said, already distracted, tapping rapidly on his phone screen. “Unlike you, always holding onto the past.” The past. My mother’s last painting had become nothing more than a relic he could throw away without a second thought. The interior designer standing nearby looked deeply uncomfortable. Clutching his tablet, he asked in a quiet voice, “Mr. Copeland, should we still order the champagne-colored bedding Miss Felicity selected?” Fion didn’t look up from his screen. “Yeah. She’s a light sleeper. Don’t go with anything too heavy.” The designer blinked, casting a quick, uneasy glance my way. Fion caught himself, a slight crease forming between his brows, though his face quickly smoothed over. “I just mean she tested the lighting for us,” he added, his voice defensive. “Her feedback was practical. Don’t overthink it.” I nodded. “I won’t.” He seemed slightly thrown by my lack of reaction, his eyes searching my face. “You’re being weird today.” Instead of answering, I walked past him into the dressing room. The built-in shelves had been lowered. The hanging rods had been adjusted to perfectly fit the floor-length maxi dresses Felicity always wore. I had told him months ago that I had a lot of heavy winter coats and needed at least one tall cabinet. Fion had scoffed, saying our house wasn’t a storage unit and that I shouldn’t make our master bedroom look like a rental. Yet, with a single passing comment from Felicity about her dresses, the closet had been reshaped in her image. I pulled open one of the jewelry drawers. Resting inside was a small, cream-colored ceramic deer. It wasn’t mine. Fion stepped in behind me. Seeing the figurine, his expression tightened for a fraction of a second before he casually picked it up and set it aside. “Felicity must have left that here. I’ll have her pick it up.” I asked, “How often has she been here?” “It’s a remodel, Monica. Of course she’s been here,” Fion’s tone sharpened. “You’ve been busy with work. I asked her to keep an eye on things to save you the trouble.” “Does she have a key?” Fion slipped his phone into his pocket and let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Monica, do you always have to make everything sound so ugly? She’s helping us, not breaking in.” I looked him in the eye. “I only asked if she had a key.” Right then, the front door clicked open. Felicity walked in carrying a bakery box, moving through the space with the effortless familiarity of someone returning to her own kitchen. “Fion, I grabbed those chestnut tarts you love. And I brought a little something for Monica, too.” She caught sight of me, her bright smile never wavering. “Oh, am I interrupting?” Fion naturally took the bakery bag from her hand. “Not at all. Monica was just saying how much she appreciates your help.” Felicity’s eyes crinkled. “Oh, Monica, don’t mention it! A future home is such a big deal. I just wanted to make sure everything was perfect for you guys.” I looked down at her feet. She was wearing a pair of soft-soled house slippers. There was only one new pair of slippers in the entryway shoe rack—pale yellow, a size smaller than mine. Fion followed my gaze. A flash of irritation crossed his face. “They’re just slippers, Monica. She’s over here a lot, so we kept a pair here to save her the hassle of changing every time.” Felicity bit her lower lip delicately. “Maybe I should take them home. I don’t want Monica to feel uncomfortable.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Fion intervened, making the decision for her. “She’s not that petty.” I reached into my purse, pulled out my set of house keys, and set them quietly on the console table by the door. “You should keep these here, then.” Fion stared at the brass keys, his face darkening. “What is that supposed to mean?” “You two need them more than I do,” I said. He stared at me, trying to gauge if I was genuinely angry or if this was just a ploy to make him beg. Felicity spoke up first. “Monica, please don’t misunderstand. Fion and I grew up together. We have so many old habits that are hard to break, but we really are just friends.” Fion chimed in instantly. “You see? Don’t make her feel so uncomfortable that she’s afraid to even help us.” I picked up my purse. “Okay.” Fion’s hand clamped onto my wrist again, harder this time. “I’ll have the driver take you home. I have a dinner meeting tonight, so do me a favor and don’t call my mother to complain about this nonsense.” I looked up at him. “What are you afraid I’ll tell her?” “I’m afraid you’ll exaggerate,” he muttered, lowering his voice. “Our wedding is in three months. Let’s not make things awkward for both of our families.” Three months. We had been engaged for two years. The day we finally set the date, I had circled it on my calendar three times in bright red ink. And now, every corner of the house we were supposed to build our life in carried Felicity’s signature. As the designer gathered his things to leave, he brushed past me. His tablet screen lit up. Across the top of the open project file, a line of bold text caught my eye: “Project: Felicity’s Residence Style Replica.” When I got into the elevator, those words were still burned into my mind. Fion ran out after me just as the doors were sliding shut. He jammed his hand between them, forcing them open. He was practically vibrating with suppressed anger. “Monica, are you really throwing a tantrum over a line of text on a draft?” I stared at his gold cufflinks. “So you saw it?” “So what if I did?” He stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. “Felicity’s old apartment had incredible aesthetics. It’s completely normal for a designer to use it as a reference.” “Our future home,” I said softly, “is a replica of her old apartment?” Fion rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Do you have to be this exhausting? I bought the place, and I paid for the remodel. Is it such a crime that I want to live in a style that’s actually comfortable?” My pale reflection stared back at me from the polished metal doors. “No,” I whispered. “It isn’t.” If anything, my quietness only annoyed him more. “Monica, when you get like this—this silent, stubborn act—it’s worse than an actual fight.” The elevator doors chimed open at the lobby. Felicity’s voice trailed after us as she hurried to catch up. “Fion, don’t be hard on her. This is all my fault.” She was holding the ceramic deer, offering it to me like a peace offering. “Here, take this. Consider it an apology. I used to love this piece, and Fion said it would look beautiful by the master bedroom window.” Fion’s eyes softened as he looked at the figurine. And suddenly, a memory flashed through my mind. On my birthday three years ago, Fion had given me a delicate magnolia brooch. “It reminded me of you,” he had told me back then. “Quiet, elegant, completely unpretentious.” But after Felicity returned from abroad, that brooch mysteriously vanished, never to be seen again. “If you love it so much, you should keep it,” I said, refusing to reach for it. Felicity’s hand froze mid-air. Fion snatched the deer from her, his voice turning cold. “She’s trying to be nice, Monica. Take it. Stop making a scene.” “I don’t want someone else’s hand-me-downs,” I said. Felicity flinched, all the color draining from her face. Fion’s entire demeanor shifted. “Monica. Apologize. Now.” Workers were moving in and out of the lobby, and the designer was only a few feet away. A few curious glances drifted toward us. “For what?” I asked. “For being cruel.” Fion gripped my shoulder. It wasn’t painful, but it was firm enough to lock me in place. “Felicity went out of her way to help you, and you’re treating her with nothing but passive-aggressive spite.” Felicity lowered her head. “It’s fine, Fion. I don’t want to make things harder for Monica.” But Fion didn’t let go. “I’ve spoiled her, and now she doesn’t even have basic manners.” I looked down at the little ceramic deer. One of its ears was chipped, repaired so carefully that only a faint seam in the glaze remained. Felicity let out a soft, self-deprecating sigh. “To be honest, Fion actually gave this to me years ago. I just thought it would fit nicely in your new home.” Fion frowned. “Felicity.” She quickly bit her lip, looking sheepish. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” A cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. So she wasn’t trying to give me her old junk. She was bringing Fion’s old gifts to her, to place them in the bedroom I was supposed to share with him. As if eager to shut down any further questions, Fion shoved the ceramic deer into my hands. “Just take it. It’s a piece of clay, Monica. Drop it.” The sharp ceramic edge dug into my palm. My hands were numb, and my grip slipped. The figurine tumbled to the polished concrete floor, shattering into two clean halves. Felicity gasped. Fion’s face went entirely dark. “Monica!” I knelt down to gather the broken pieces. A sharp edge sliced into my index finger, and a bead of dark red blood welled up. Fion saw it. His hand twitched as if to reach for me, but instead, he turned to shield Felicity. “Don’t look at it. Be careful not to step on the shards.” Felicity hid behind his shoulder. “Monica, I know you don’t like me. But you didn’t have to do that.” I held the sharp fragments in my palm. “How much was it? I’ll write you a check.” Fion stared down at my bleeding hand, his voice dropping an octave. “This isn’t about money.” “Then what is it about?” I asked. He didn’t answer. The designer stepped forward cautiously, offering a pocket pack of tissues. “Miss Monica, maybe you should wrap that up first.” Fion took the tissues, but before he could hand them to me, his phone buzzed in his palm. He checked the screen and answered immediately. “Yes, Aunt Sharon? No, Felicity is right here with me. Don’t worry.” Felicity leaned closer to listen, her expression instantly softening. The voice on the other end was loud enough to carry through the quiet lobby. “Fion, dear! How is the new house coming along? Now that I’m back in town, I simply must be the first one to see it!” I squeezed the broken ceramic pieces in my fist, looking up at Fion. He hesitated for a single second. Then, he spoke smoothly: “It’s almost ready. I’ll bring her over soon.” So, it was “their” new house. I didn’t ask Fion who Aunt Sharon was. And he didn’t offer to explain. The next afternoon, Fion’s mother, Helena, invited me to a bridal boutique for a dress fitting. When I arrived, Felicity was already there, lounging on the velvet sofa with a delicate white lace bridal shawl draped over her shoulders. Helena smiled warmly, waving me over. “Monica, darling, come in! Felicity has such an eye for these things—she’s already pulled a few gorgeous options for you.” I looked at the rack of gowns. Every single one of them had an empire waist, a short train, and exceptionally narrow shoulder lines. “These aren’t really my style,” I said. Helena’s smile faltered. “Well, dear, when it comes to weddings, it’s always best to listen to those with experience. Felicity has helped plan several high-profile weddings. She knows what works.” Felicity stood up, lifting a simple, sleek gown from the rack. “This one is stunning. Fion would love you in this.” I looked at her. “It’s my wedding. Why should I dress solely for his preferences?” Helena’s teacup paused halfway to her lips. “Monica, marriage is about compromise. Fion is under a lot of pressure at work. The least you can do is try to accommodate him.” Felicity added softly, “Fion has always preferred a very clean, understated aesthetic. If you wear something too dramatic, he’ll probably find it distracting.” The consultant carried the dresses into the fitting room, but I remained standing where I was. Helena finally sighed, her patience wearing thin. “Honestly, Monica, I don’t know why you’ve become so difficult lately. First it was the painting, then the decor, and now the dress. Must you make an issue out of everything?” I looked at her. “Did you know they took down my mother’s painting?” Helena paused. “Felicity mentioned it. She said the original piece was a bit dated. It didn’t really fit the mood of a modern home.” I nodded slowly. “My mother painted that.” The air in the boutique turned icy. Felicity’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “Monica, oh my god, I had no idea. If I had known, I swear I would have never suggested moving it.” Helena’s voice softened slightly, though she remained defensive. “Well, that was obviously a misunderstanding. But Fion was only trying to make the house look its best. You can’t hold a simple mistake against him forever.” Suddenly, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. They all knew I was being hurt. They just cared more about keeping Felicity from feeling uncomfortable. When Fion pushed open the boutique door a few minutes later, Helena looked at him like he was a savior. “Fion, thank goodness. Monica is refusing to even try on the dresses Felicity picked out.” Fion glanced briefly at the rack. “Felicity chose these?” Felicity nodded. “I was just trying to help.” “Then pick one of these,” Fion said, walking over to me. He reached out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind my shoulder. “Monica, let’s not keep everyone waiting.” I looked up into his eyes. “What if I don’t want to wear any of them?” His hand froze. His voice was low, laced with a quiet warning. “The wedding isn’t just about you.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “The house isn’t mine. The dress isn’t mine. Whose wedding is this, Fion?” Fion’s eyes narrowed. “There are people watching. Stop acting out.” Felicity murmured, “Monica, please don’t be upset. Fion just wants the day to go smoothly.” Without another word, I turned and walked into the fitting room. As the consultant zipped me up, my phone buzzed in my bag. It was a text from the designer. “Miss Monica, I wanted to follow up on the magnolia painting you asked about. I managed to track it down.” “Mr. Copeland’s assistant said we didn’t need to keep the original frame because Miss Felicity didn’t like how weathered it looked. They had it sent to a storage facility.” Below the message was an attached photo. In the dusty corner of a commercial warehouse, my mother’s magnolia painting was propped carelessly against a concrete wall. The canvas was badly creased along the top, and the edges were coated in gray dust. I stared at the image, a cold, dead weight settling deep in my chest. The consultant asked gently, “Is the bodice too tight, Miss Monica?” “A little,” I whispered. When I stepped out, Fion’s eyes swept over me. He looked satisfied, his shoulders relaxing. “That one looks fine.” Beside him, Felicity went completely still, her fingers tightening around her lace shawl. Helena smiled wistfully. “You know, if Felicity had gotten her wedding years ago, I imagine she would have looked exactly like this.” Fion’s expression shifted instantly. “Mom.” Helena caught her mistake, quickly hiding behind her teacup. “Oh, just a silly observation.” I looked at myself in the triple-mirror. I stood there, wearing a dress handpicked by Felicity, standing next to Fion like a cheap cutout pasted over an old photograph. As I turned, I noticed a leather binder peeking out from a gap in the fitting room door. I bent down to pick it up. On the cover, a printed label read: “Wedding Program Draft.” “Bride’s Aesthetic Preferences: Felicity.” I set the folder down, my fingers lingering on the cool leather for a beat. Fion walked over. “What are you looking at?” I looked up at him. “Why does the wedding program reference Felicity?” He glanced at the binder, his face remaining entirely expressionless. “The planning agency got lazy. They reused a template from a package she worked on before. I’ll have them fix it.” Felicity chimed in immediately, her voice frantic. “I sent them some inspiration files earlier to help out. They must have gotten confused. Monica, please don’t be mad.” I looked at Fion. “Is it just a confusion?” The last thread of his patience snapped. “What else would it be, Monica? Are you really at the point where seeing her name makes you think the whole world is plotting against you?” I didn’t ask another question. That afternoon, I drove out to the warehouse alone. It took the manager nearly an hour to find the painting. “Mr. Copeland’s assistant said they didn’t want it anymore,” he apologized as he handed it over. “We didn’t want to throw it away, so we just kept it back here.” The canvas had a deep crease running right through the stems, and the area near my mother’s signature was slightly scuffed. I sat in my car, using a soft cloth to gently wipe away the dust. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Fion. “Aunt Sharon is coming over to the house for dinner tonight. Be there. And don’t ruin the mood.” I replied with a single word: “Okay.” The dinner was set up in the newly finished house. When I arrived, the dining table had already been laid out directly beneath the giant sunflower painting. Felicity was clinging to an elderly woman’s arm, laughing sweetly. Aunt Sharon looked at Fion, her eyes shining with pride. “Fion, sweetheart, this place is magnificent. It feels just as warm and cozy as Felicity’s old apartment.” Fion didn’t correct her. I paused in the entryway, my hands freezing as I took off my coat. Felicity noticed me first, her laughter dying down to a polite, strained smile. “Oh, Monica. You’re here.” Aunt Sharon blinked. “And who is this?” Fion hesitated before speaking. “Aunt Sharon, this is Monica.” He didn’t say “my fiancée.” Aunt Sharon’s eyes darted between the three of us. She quickly recovered her bright smile. “Ah, a friend! Come in, dear, sit down.” Fion leaned in close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “She’s got a weak heart, Monica. She can’t handle stress. Don’t say anything stupid.” I looked at him. “What qualifies as stupid?” “Don’t mention the wedding,” he muttered. “Don’t mention our relationship. I’ll explain everything to you after she leaves.” I let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Fion, you invited me here to act like a stranger in my own home?” “It’s just one dinner,” he hissed. Felicity stepped over, her eyes full of performative guilt. “Monica, I’m so sorry. Aunt Sharon practically raised Fion and me. She’s always assumed we would end up together, and we’re just terrified the truth might hurt her.” “So I’m the one who has to play along to spare her feelings?” I asked. Fion nodded immediately, relieved. “I knew you’d understand.” At the table, Aunt Sharon kept piling food onto Felicity’s plate. “Felicity’s loved this dish since she was a little girl. You remember that, don’t you, Fion?” Fion expertly deboned a piece of fish and placed it in Felicity’s bowl. “Of course I do.” Aunt Sharon beamed, clapping her hands. “You always did know how to take care of her. Seeing you two together like this makes my heart so happy.” Felicity blushed, casting a fleeting, nervous glance at me. “Aunt Sharon, please.” Fion took a sip of water, offering no correction. I sat at the very edge of the table. The dim yellow light of the bedside lamp they’d moved to the living room cast a dreary shadow over the food. Suddenly, Aunt Sharon turned to me. “So, dear, do you have a boyfriend?” The table fell dead silent. Fion looked up, his eyes practically screaming a warning at me. I set my fork down quietly. “I used to.” Fion’s jaw tightened. Aunt Sharon, oblivious to the tension, smiled. “And now?” I looked directly at Fion. “Not for much longer.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “542301”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the sixth year of Oliver’s rise to principal architect, I packed up my own drafting table, resigned from my firm, and quietly stepped into the role of his stay-at-home wife. During his most brutal stretches, I lived by his blueprint schedules. I delivered warm meals directly to his office every single day, just to ensure he didn’t forget to eat. I asked him once—only once. “Could you take me to see the glass pavilion? The one with the stargazing dome you designed? Just this once.” Without looking up from his drawings, he said, “It’s an active construction site, Celine. Not a tourist attraction.” I told him okay. And I never brought it up again. Until the night insomnia kept me awake, and I found the encrypted folder on his tablet. Inside were more than forty photographs, all captured from the interior of the glass pavilion. They documented every shift of light: dawn breaks, golden hours, starlight, and rainbows cutting through storm clouds. Every single photo had been sent to the same contact, saved under the name of a single daisy emoji. The most recent upload was from three days ago—a clear night sky with the moon reflected perfectly on the glass dome. His caption read: “The sky is beautiful tonight. Next time you’re here, stand right on the central axis. That’s the best angle.” The reply was a single starry-eyed emoji: “Counting down the days until my vacation.” I put the tablet back exactly where it belonged. I didn’t change the passcode. I didn’t delete the photos. When dawn broke, I brewed a pot of coffee as I always did, and drank a cup in absolute silence. Then I opened my laptop, drafted the divorce papers, and booked a one-way ticket to Zurich. Seven years. I was finally done scheduling my life around his construction milestones. If there was no room for me under his glass dome, I would go find a bigger sky of my own. … “Why are you up so early?” Oliver adjusted his tie as he walked out of the bedroom, his brow slightly furrowed. I leaned against the kitchen island, holding my mug, watching him fasten the custom-made cufflinks I had gifted him years ago. “I couldn’t sleep. Just having some coffee.” He walked over to the counter, casually picked up the other cup of hot milk I had poured, and took a sip. “Did you stay up late watching those mindless reality shows again?” “No.” “Celine, your routine is getting messy lately.” He glanced at his watch, his tone carrying its usual trace of quiet condescension. “I’m heading out to the site in the next city today. I’ll be gone for four days.” “Okay.” He seemed slightly caught off guard by how quietly I accepted this. Normally, when he traveled for work, I would spend the previous evening packing his suitcase—nestling his stomach medication, melatonin, and lumbar support cushion between his clothes. I would remind him a dozen times to text me the moment his flight landed or when he checked into his hotel. Today, I did nothing. I just sat at the island, watching him. “Where did you put my stomach pills?” he asked, rummaging through his briefcase. “Second drawer of the media console. Grab them yourself.” His hands paused. He turned to look at me, squinting. “What is wrong with you today? You can’t even walk a few steps to grab them?” “I’m just tired.” He let out a heavy sigh, walked over to the console, snatched the medication, and shoved it into his pocket. “You spend all day at home, Celine. I have no idea what you could possibly be tired of.” Before I could answer, his phone buzzed on the marble counter. A notification popped up on the lock screen. The sender was “flower icon.” “Oliver, it’s freezing in the valley today. Don’t forget to pack a heavy coat.” Oliver picked up the phone. The glow of the screen caught the slight, soft curve of his lips. He quickly typed a reply with one hand, completely forgetting to finish zipping his briefcase. “A colleague?” I asked, staring at the little daisy icon. He locked his screen and slipped the phone into his pocket. “Yeah. Lydia. She’s joining us on this trip to oversee the interior installations.” “I thought she was assigned to conceptual design at headquarters.” “There were some last-minute adjustments on-site. She’s helping me supervise.” His response was seamless, delivered with the practiced ease of someone who didn’t even need to invent an excuse. I watched his tall, confident frame and thought of the forty photos hidden in that encrypted folder. Every single one of them had been captured by his own hand, a private gallery of the glass pavilion. He had never shared a single frame of it with me, yet he had offered it all to Lydia without reservation. “Oliver.” “What?” He was already at the foyer, slipping into his shoes. “Do you know what next Wednesday is?” He didn’t pause his movements. “Next Wednesday? We have the bidding presentation for the lakeside development. Why?” “Nothing.” Next Wednesday was our seventh wedding anniversary. Seven years ago, on that exact date, he had landed his very first major commission. He had spun me around our cramped, drafty rental apartment, laughing until he was breathless, promising that one day he would design the most beautiful house in the world for me—one that could hold all the stars. He had forgotten. “I’m leaving. I’ll text you when I arrive.” He pushed the door open. “Oliver.” I called out one last time. His hand lingered on the doorknob, his impatience visibly flaring. “What now, Celine? The driver is waiting downstairs.” “Your briefcase is unzipped.” He glanced down, pulled the zipper shut with a quick jerk, and sighed. “Right. You’re acting incredibly strange today.” The door clicked shut. The apartment fell back into a dead, heavy silence. I walked over to my laptop, opened the document, and signed my name at the bottom of the printed divorce agreement. Then I opened my travel app and confirmed the one-way ticket to Zurich, scheduled for seven days from now. Seven days. More than enough time to erase seven years of my existence from this space. My phone rang. It was my best friend, Phoebe. “Is the resignation officially processed? Have you spoken to the director at the institute?” “Yes,” I replied. “I’ll be reporting to the lab next week.” “Once you make this choice, you can’t look back,” Phoebe said, her voice softening. “What about Oliver? When are you going to tell him?” “The day I leave.” There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Celine… seven years of your life. The design career you put on hold just to support his dreams. You’re really just going to walk away like this? Without a fight?” “I don’t want it anymore.” I looked at the cold glass of milk sitting untouched on the counter. “Phoebe, have you ever seen the stars he photographs for other people?” “What?” “They’re breathtaking. Even the glare on the glass dome looks incredibly soft. It’s just a shame they weren’t meant for me.” In the afternoon, I took the elevator down to the building’s management office. I requested to have my fingerprint and facial recognition profile completely removed from the penthouse security system. The concierge, a warm-hearted older woman, watched me sign the release form with a puzzled look. “Mrs. Woodward, why are you removing your access? Won’t that make coming and going terribly difficult?” “I won’t be coming back,” I said with a quiet smile. Back upstairs, I dragged two large packing boxes out of the storage closet and began sorting through my life. This place was massive—a three-thousand-square-foot luxury penthouse overlooking the river, purchased entirely in cash. Oliver had bought it to “thank me” for staying by his side through the lean, grueling early years of his career. I had genuinely believed it was our home. But as I began packing, I realized how little of myself actually existed here. In the massive walk-in closet, my clothes occupied barely two small racks. The rest of the space was filled with his custom-tailored suits, cashmere overcoats, and designer athletic gear. I folded my everyday sweaters and jeans into a single suitcase. The expensive, stiff evening gowns he had bought for me—the ones that never quite fit my style but looked great on his arm at galas—I left hanging, untouched. On the bedside table sat a miniature architectural model. It was a replica of his first international award-winning design. I lifted it gently. Tucked beneath the base was a small photograph. It was a picture of us from four years ago. He had just launched his own independent studio, his eyes bright with ambition and hunger. I carefully pulled the photograph out, walked over to the bin, and let it drop inside. I set the model back down, exactly where it had been. At dusk, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Oliver. “Arrived. Just got to the hotel.” Normally, I would have replied instantly. I would have asked if the flight was turbulent, if the construction site was dusty, if he needed me to call his room to make sure he took his medication. Today, I typed a single word: “Okay.” Half an hour later, another message came through. “There’s a high-end duty-free shop near the hotel. Do you want me to pick up that designer handbag you wanted?” I was in the bathroom, packing my skincare products into a travel case. I didn’t look up as I typed: “No need.” “Weren’t you constantly talking about getting that limited-edition piece?” I looked at my reflection in the vanity mirror. “No need,” I wrote back. “I don’t care for it anymore.” There was no further reply. Perhaps he assumed I was simply being difficult, or perhaps he was simply too occupied with someone else. I opened Instagram and checked Lydia’s profile. Her latest post had been uploaded ten minutes ago. It was a shot of the riverfront at night, two steaming cups of coffee resting on a wooden railing. Resting near one of the cups was a man’s hand, his index finger marked by a very faint, thin scar. It was a scar Oliver had gotten years ago from a utility knife while building a model. I had spent a week meticulously changing his bandages and keeping the wound clean. Lydia’s caption read: “The wind off the river is freezing, but the coffee is warm. Business trips are always better when you have someone to take care of you.” A few of their mutual colleagues from the firm had already liked the post. One comment read: “Is Oliver paying for the coffee? You’re so spoiled, Lydia!” Lydia had replied with a simple blushing emoji. I closed the app, my thumb steady. The sharp, stabbing ache that usually flared in my chest was gone. It had been replaced by a dull, hollow numbness. For seven years, I had behaved like a blind woman, starving myself while surviving on the beautiful promises he drew up for me. Oliver wasn’t incapable of thoughtfulness. He wasn’t missing a romantic bone in his body. He was simply saving all of his warmth, all of his small gestures, for someone else. A few days later, Oliver returned from his trip. At seven in the evening, the front door clicked open. He stepped into the foyer carrying a beautifully wrapped gift box. I sat quietly on the sofa, watching him kick off his shoes. “You didn’t make dinner?” He glanced toward the pristine, empty kitchen. “I already ate.” His brows knitted together instantly. “I’ve been traveling and working on-site for four straight days, and I can’t even get a hot meal when I walk through the door?” “You can always order delivery.” He slammed the gift box down onto the coffee table. “Celine, what exactly is your problem lately? What are you throwing a tantrum over?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “Then why the radio silence? You barely texted me, and you wouldn’t even tell me what you wanted from the shops.” I looked down at the elegant gift box on the table. “Is that for me?” He hesitated, his gaze drifting away for a fraction of a second. “This… a colleague asked me to bring this back for them. I’ll take you to the mall tomorrow to make up for it.” A colleague. “Did Lydia ask you to bring it back?” I looked him directly in the eyes. His expression darkened instantly. “Did you go through my phone?” “Her social media accounts are entirely public, Oliver.” He let out a breath, his posture instantly shifting back to defensive indignation. “She did me a massive favor on-site, so I picked up a small thank-you gift. Is that really a crime? Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” “I didn’t say anything.” “Your entire freezing attitude says everything!” He ripped off his tie with a frustrated yank. “She’s my colleague. We work together every single day. Is it really so wrong for me to look out for her?” “You look out for her beautifully.” I stood up, having absolutely no desire to argue. “Celine!” he called out after me. “I am exhausted. Can you please just grow up? Don’t make me come home to this silent treatment after a grueling week.” “Grow up.” I had been the grown-up for seven years. I swallowed the dry lump in my throat, turned my back to him, and walked into the guest bedroom. “I’m sleeping in here tonight. Get some rest.” Over the next two days, I systematically dismantled my presence in the apartment. The towering Bird of Paradise plant in the living room—the one I had spent months nurturing—I gifted to the lovely neighbor down the hall. The solid oak drafting easel on the balcony—the one I had spent weeks researching—I sold to a secondhand buyer who came to haul it away. Oliver didn’t notice a single missing item. To him, my quietness was simply a welcome relief. He seemed pleased that I was finally “behaving.” “See? Isn’t it much better when we aren’t fighting?” he remarked on Friday morning, eating the store-bought frozen ravioli I had quickly boiled for him. “It’s Lydia’s birthday tonight. A few of us from the studio are getting dinner. I want you to come along.” My hand paused on the counter I was wiping. “Why would I go?” “You’re always complaining that I keep my professional life separate from you. Today is a casual gathering, so it’s the perfect time for you to meet the team.” His tone carried the weight of a generous peace offering. Years ago, I had practically begged him to let me be a part of his world, to introduce me to his colleagues. He had always brushed me off: “They’re all designers, Celine. You won’t understand the jargon. You’ll just be bored.” Now, he was finally extending an invitation—only because it was Lydia’s birthday. “Okay,” I said quietly. “I’ll go.” I wanted to see, with my own eyes, exactly what place Lydia held in his world. At eight that evening, we arrived at a dimly lit French bistro. When the door to the private dining room opened, about seven people were already seated around the long table. Lydia sat at the head, radiant in a white silk slip dress. Resting against her collarbone was a delicate diamond necklace—the exact one I had seen inside the gift box on our coffee table two days ago. “Oliver! Celine’s here too!” Lydia stood up immediately, her face lighting up with a warm, welcoming smile. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you, Celine. Oliver talks about you all the time.” She reached out, intending to clasp my hand in hers. I stepped back slightly, adjusting my purse. “Happy birthday,” I said, my voice even. An awkward beat of silence rippled through the room. Oliver took my elbow, guiding me to a seat, and whispered a sharp warning in my ear: “Don’t ruin this night with your attitude.” Throughout the dinner, the conversation revolved entirely around their current projects—difficult clients, supply chain delays, and design revisions. I didn’t participate, nor did I care to. “But seriously, Oliver’s vision for the lakeside project is absolute genius,” a junior designer said, raising his wine glass. “Lydia knows it better than anyone. She’s the only one who can look at Oliver’s rough sketches and instantly know exactly what he wants.” Lydia giggled, pressing her hand to her cheek. “Well, Oliver is a force of nature. Remember that storm during our site survey last month? The rain was so heavy I could barely see my own feet, and I was absolutely terrified. Then I got a text from Oliver saying, “‘I’m right here, don’t worry.’” I swear, my heart just stopped. I felt completely safe.” The table erupted into lighthearted teasing. “Oh, “‘I’m right here, don’t worry!’” How romantic!” Oliver laughed along with them, offering no correction, his eyes softening as he looked at her. I took a slow sip of my water. It was lukewarm and slightly bitter with lemon. The storm. I remembered that site survey. Because of the severe weather, he had been entirely unreachable for over five hours. I had paced our living room floor, sick with worry, dialing his number ten times without an answer. When he finally replied, it was a curt text: “I’m working. Stop suffocating me.” It turned out he had been busy comforting Lydia. “Celine, how do you handle him?” Lydia suddenly turned the spotlight on me, her expression a mix of mock concern and sweetness. “Oliver has such a sensitive stomach, and yesterday he skipped breakfast entirely to finish a layout. It practically breaks our hearts at the office to see him neglect himself like that.” The underlying accusation was loud and clear. The table fell silent, everyone waiting for my response. “He’s a grown man,” I said, putting my glass down. “He knows how to use a delivery app.” Lydia’s smile faltered, her eyes instantly brimming with tears. “Celine… I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just worried about his health…” “Celine, that is enough.” Oliver slammed his fork onto his plate, his face turning a deep, angry crimson. “Everyone is trying to have a good time. Do you absolutely have to be so bitter and humiliate her?” “Did I say anything humiliating?” I looked at him, completely unbothered. “She was simply reminding you to take care of your husband! What is wrong with your attitude?” I stood up, picking up my coat and handbag. “Since you have such a devoted team keeping track of your stomach, Oliver, you clearly don’t need my concern anymore.” “Celine! If you walk out of this room tonight, don’t bother coming back!” he roared behind me. I pushed the heavy door open and walked out without a single glance back. The cool night air of the street hit my face, and I took a deep, cleansing breath. For seven long years, I had shrunk myself to preserve his pride. I was finally done stepping on my own dignity to keep him elevated. Back at the penthouse, I packed my remaining books into the last cardboard box. All that was left was to wait for Wednesday. Oliver didn’t come home that night. He didn’t return until noon the next day. As he walked past me, the distinct scent of a subtle, woodsy perfume drifted through the air. It was the signature scent Lydia wore. He tossed his keys onto the console and glared at me. “Are you done throwing your little tantrum?” I was sealing the final cardboard box with packing tape, not even looking up. “Are you deaf?” He kicked the box gently. “Why are you packing up all this junk?” “Just clearing out things we don’t need.” He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Celine, this silent treatment is getting pathetic. Do you honestly think if you ignore me for a few days, I’m going to come begging for your forgiveness?” I stood up straight, brushing the dust from my hands. “I don’t expect you to do anything.” “Then what is all of this? Lydia cried for nearly an hour last night because of what you said. You owe her an apology.” “I am not apologizing.” “You are being completely irrational!” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and sat down on the sofa. “I don’t have the energy for this. Next Wednesday, I’m flying to Iceland for the aurora architecture summit. If you can admit you’re being ridiculous, I’ll transfer the guest pass I reserved for Lydia to you. I’ll take you to see the northern lights.” I froze. The northern lights. Five years ago, when the doctors found a nodule on my thyroid, I had been absolutely terrified despite it being benign. He had held my hand in the hospital bed and promised, “‘As soon as you’re recovered, I’m taking you to Iceland. We’ll stay in a hotel I designed and watch the aurora together.’” He had kept that promise waiting for five long years. And now, he was offering it to me as a charitable concession—a hand-me-down pass that had been intended for Lydia all along. “Give the pass to Lydia,” I said, my voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. “What?” “I said, give it to her. I don’t want it.” Oliver surged to his feet, his face turning dangerously pale. “Celine, don’t test my patience. I am handing you an olive branch. If you want to throw it back in my face, fine. But don’t you dare come crying to me when you regret it.” “I won’t.” In a fit of rage, he swept his hand across the side table, shattering a crystal highball glass onto the hardwood floor. A sharp shard flew up, slicing a thin line across my lower leg. A bead of blood welled up instantly. He didn’t even look down. He stormed out of the apartment, slamming the heavy front door so hard the walls vibrated. I looked down at the small red line on my skin, pulled a tissue from my pocket, and wiped it away. It didn’t hurt. It truly didn’t hurt anymore. Wednesday arrived. Our seventh anniversary. It was also the day my divorce petition was finalized, and the day I was scheduled to leave this city behind. I rolled my single suitcase out of the penthouse and called an Uber to the airport. My flight to Zurich was scheduled for three in the afternoon. As I sat in the boarding lounge, watching the jets taxi across the tarmac, I realized Oliver’s flight to Reykjavik had departed at two. He was likely settling into his first-class seat by now. I opened my phone one last time, wanting to take a final look at his social media to put a definitive end to these seven years. A new post popped up on my feed. It wasn’t Oliver’s. It was Lydia’s. It was a selfie taken in a first-class cabin. She was leaning her head gently against Oliver’s shoulder, her face flushed with happiness. Her caption: “He told me that the northern lights are meant to be shared with the person who truly understands his designs.” I stared at the screen, a dry laugh catching in my throat. He had never intended to give that pass to me. The offer had been a manipulative lie, a desperate attempt to keep me quiet and compliant while he enjoyed his romantic getaway with her. The overhead speakers crackled to life, announcing the final boarding call for my flight to Zurich. I tapped the screen, held down his contact, and deleted Oliver’s number. The cabin doors sealed shut. The plane taxied, accelerated, and soared into the sky, cutting through the heavy gray clouds. As Oliver chased his northern lights with his darling protege, I looked out at the vast, open ocean of clouds beneath me. For the first time in seven years, I was completely free.

The day I was accepted into Juilliard as their top-ranked cellist, the Donald family finally claimed me as their own. My biological mother, Beatrice, held me in a weeping embrace, whispering promises that all those years of neglect would be made up to me. My father, Richard, bought me a brand-new Maserati and enrolled me in the city’s most exclusive driving academy, promising he would personally drive me to campus on my first day of classes. But the night before my final road test, Damian—their precious, adopted golden boy—took my Maserati for a joyride. He hit a pedestrian and left them to die in the rain. My older sister, Doris, gripped my hands so tightly her nails dug into my skin. Her voice was a hushed, desperate whisper. “Adrian, please. Just take the fall for Damian. He’s had a weak heart since he was a child. He won’t survive a prison cell.” Beatrice fell to her knees in front of me, sobbing. “You’ve practiced the cello for thirteen years. When you get out, you can always audition again. But Damian is different. If he goes to prison, he’ll die.” Richard pushed the pre-drafted confession toward me, promising that the Donalds had the connections to get me out in six months. And Scarlett, my girlfriend, personally ripped the memory card out of the dashcam, smashed it under her heel, and wiped the tears from my face. “Adrian, I’ll wait for you.” On the day I was escorted into the state penitentiary, Damian wore the custom Italian wool performance suit Beatrice had bought for my debut. He boarded a first-class flight to a prestigious European conservatory to continue his studies. Standing right beside him at the terminal, sending him off, was Scarlett. Because of the hit-and-run and the charge of leaving the scene of a fatal accident, I was sentenced to seven years. I served every single day of it. It was dusk when I finished detailing the last Porsche Cayenne at the shop. I wiped down the hood and handed the keys back to the owner. Scarlett was standing just outside the wash bay, holding the hand of a five-year-old boy. She stared at me for several long seconds before she finally spoke. “Adrian. Why didn’t you ever come look for me? Are you still punishing us?” I tapped the laminated Venmo QR code taped to the counter, keeping my eyes downward. “Eighty dollars. Venmo or cash.” … “Scarlett, that’s eighty dollars. Do you want to scan the code, or are you paying cash?” Scarlett didn’t move. She stood just beyond the edge of the dirty, soapy runoff pooling on the concrete. Her designer coat was immaculate, looking entirely out of place in the grime of the garage. The little boy stared with wide, curious eyes at the high-pressure hose in my hand. Scarlett’s gaze, however, remained fixed on my cheap, oversized waterproof boots and the stained apron tied around my waist. “Adrian, you shouldn’t have let yourself fall this low,” she said, her voice carrying a soft, patronizing edge. “Even if you’re angry, you shouldn’t ruin your own future just to spite us.” I turned off the valve on the water tank. The sudden silence in the bay was heavy, save for the steady drip of muddy water. “Venmo or cash?” I repeated. The boy suddenly broke free from Scarlett’s grip. Pointing at an old, weathered wooden cello bow resting inside a glass display case behind my counter, he squealed, “Look! A toy!” and reached for it. I lunged forward to block his hand. The sudden movement caught the old fracture in my wrist, and a sharp, white-hot pain shot up my forearm. My fingers gave out. The bow slipped from my grasp, clattering loudly against the concrete. Scarlett pulled the boy back, her eyes dropping to my exposed wrist. The scar was thick and jagged, cutting horizontally across the bone, glaringly white under the fluorescent lights. Her face paled. “What happened to your hand?” I pulled my sleeve down, hiding the scar, and bent to pick up the bow. “None of your business.” Scarlett’s brow furrowed, her tone softening into that familiar, pleading register. “Adrian, stop this. The Donalds said you’d only be in there for six months. You ran away and hid for seven years, turning yourself into… this. Who are you trying to punish?” She sighed, stepping closer. “Do you have any idea how sick Beatrice got because of your childish disappearance? She cried herself to sleep every night.” I stopped wiping the counter. “Six months.” I had spent seven agonizing years behind steel bars. Seven years of absolute hell, and to them, it was just me “throwing a childish tantrum.” I grabbed a dry rag and wiped the remaining water off the glass case. “I wasn’t hiding. I’ve been right here, washing cars.” Scarlett’s expression hardened. “Damian hasn’t had it easy either, Adrian. He’s lived with the guilt of what happened. He can barely sleep at night. Just come back with me. Whatever misunderstandings we have, we can sit down and talk them through.” She reached out, her fingers aiming for my sleeve. I took a step back, letting the counter remain a physical barrier between us. “If the car is clean, pay the bill and leave. Don’t hold up my line.” A chime on my phone signaled the transaction had gone through. I slung the dry rag over my shoulder. “Thank you, Scarlett. Have a good evening.” Ten minutes later, a sleek Audi sedan pulled up to the curb. The door slammed shut, and Doris Donald stepped out, her high heels clicking sharply against the wet pavement. She marched into the bay, her eyes sweeping over the cheap neon sign before landing on my face. “Adrian Pierce,” she said, using the surname of the woman who had actually raised me. “Mother is in the hospital. How long do you plan on keeping up this ridiculous act?” She didn’t ask how I was. She didn’t ask how I had survived. Her eyes merely lingered on my rubber boots and grease-stained apron, her lips curling in disgust. “A son of the Donald family washing cars in a place like this? You are dragging our name through the mud. Pack your things. You’re coming home to apologize to Mother.” I threw the wet rag into the dirty water bucket, splashing a few dark drops onto her designer trousers. “You have the wrong person, Ms. Donald. My name is Adrian Pierce. I don’t belong to your family.” The vein in Doris’s temple throbbed. “Damian already apologized for what happened back then. And you only served six months. The family compensated you handsomely. Why did you vanish the moment you got out? Do you have any idea how long we’ve been looking for you?” “Looking for me?” A wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to grip the edge of the counter. This city wasn’t that big. They didn’t even know how long I had actually spent in prison, yet they had the audacity to claim they had been searching for me for seven years. The only person who had ever truly looked for me was Martha Pierce, my adoptive mother. Scarlett sighed, stepping in to smooth things over. “Adrian, Doris is just worried. Beatrice was admitted to the hospital again yesterday. No matter how much resentment you hold, you should at least go see her.” Doris pulled out her phone, dialed a video call, and thrust the screen in front of my face. On the screen, Beatrice lay in a sterile hospital bed, her face pale and drawn. The moment she saw my face through the camera, her eyes welled with tears. “Adrian… do I have to get down on my knees and beg you to come home?” She clutched her chest, her shoulders shaking. “Do you know how many nightmares I’ve had about you? I know we made you suffer back then, but how could you be so heartless as to cut us off for seven years?” I stared at her perfectly preserved, expensive skin. Seven years ago, when she knelt in front of me begging me to take Damian’s place, she had cried the exact same way. “Adrian, say something,” Scarlett urged from the side. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.” I lifted my eyes to meet theirs. “What do you want me to say? That I should be grateful? That taking the fall for Damian was a privilege granted to me by the great Donald family?” Doris’s face darkened. “Don’t take that sarcastic tone with me.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “But you love it when I’m agreeable, don’t you? Didn’t I play that part perfectly before?” I remembered the night of my welcoming gala. Richard had insisted I play the cello in front of all their high-society friends. He wanted to show off his brilliant, newly recovered biological son. I had spent the entire week practicing until my fingertips were raw and calloused, wearing the custom suit Beatrice had bought for me. I wanted so badly to make them proud. But right before I was scheduled to go on, I realized my cello strings had been tampered with, and my sheet music was missing. Damian had walked into the tuning room, a bright, innocent smile on his face. “Adrian,” he had whispered, leaning close. “Did you really think that just because you share their blood, any of this would actually belong to you?” There had been no time to argue. I had to go out and play from memory. Halfway through the piece, the C-string snapped with a sharp crack, slicing deep into my index finger. Blood dripped onto the white wood of the cello and my pristine sleeve. I forced myself to finish, enduring the burning pain. But when I went backstage to find Damian, he was already on the floor, clutching his chest, sobbing hysterically. “I’m sorry, Adrian,” Damian had wept, looking smaller than ever. “I just wanted to help tune your cello. Please don’t hate me for stealing your spotlight.” Beatrice had rushed past me, pushing me aside to scream for a doctor. Doris had pointed a finger at my chest. “You’ve only been back for a week and you’re already bullying him? You know he has a heart condition!” Scarlett had seen my bleeding hand, yet she had gently pressed her hand onto my shoulder, whispering, “Adrian, Damian is fragile. Just let it go. Apologize.” That was the night I learned that in the face of Damian’s tears, the truth was entirely irrelevant. Nobody cared about my severed cello string. Nobody cared that my hand was bleeding. They only cared that Damian was crying. Later, I overheard Damian throwing a tantrum at the maid in the hallway. “As long as he is in this house, I will always feel like an outsider. I won’t let him have anything.” When I pushed the door open to confront him, he shrieked, took a step back, and threw himself down the stairs. Doris had rushed up, and without looking at the security cameras or asking a single question, she slapped me across the face. “How can you be so vicious? He’s sick!” That night, Scarlett had come to my room to tell me that Damian was simply insecure, and that I needed to be the bigger person. “Adrian,” Scarlett said, pulling me out of the memory. Her patience was clearly wearing thin. “You pushed Damian to the brink back then. He had to sneak out of the country just to escape your hostility.” She looked at me as if I were a petulant child. “Stop holding onto the past to torture everyone else.” Scarlett truly believed Damian had been driven away by me. She had no idea that the person driven to the edge of the cliff was the one standing right in front of her. During my first month in prison, another inmate had shattered my wrist with a heavy metal mess-hall spoon. The guards had written it off as a typical cafeteria brawl, and I was thrown into solitary confinement for three days. Before the heavy steel door slammed shut, the inmate had leaned in close, whispering in my ear: “Adrian, keep your mouth shut. Young Mr. Donald paid to make sure you’re taken care of.” Now, the scar on my wrist was a permanent reminder that I would never play the cello again. Doris saw my silence and assumed I was wavering. “If you come home and apologize, the family will overlook your dramatic disappearance.” “Overlook it?” I looked down at the dirty water pooling around my boots, suddenly feeling an overwhelming exhaustion. They didn’t want to know the truth. They just wanted the convenient lie. The night of the accident had been pouring rain. Damian had taken my Maserati without permission. At three in the morning, he had come shivering into the house, covered in mud, sobbing that he had hit someone. Richard’s first instinct hadn’t been to call an ambulance. He had locked the front gates and ordered the household staff to stay silent. Doris had squeezed my wrist so hard I thought she would break it. “Adrian, you’re stronger than Damian. You have to take this for him.” Beatrice had wept on the floor, clutching my knees. And Richard had pushed the written confession toward me. “The family has resources, Adrian. We’ve retained the best defense attorneys. Six months at most, and I promise I’ll bring you home.” I had screamed that I was terrified, that my road test was the next morning, that my classes at Juilliard started the following month. But Damian had collapsed onto the sofa, clutching his chest, gasping for air. The entire family rushed to surround him, leaving me standing alone in the cold hallway. Scarlett had pulled me to the far end of the corridor. She took my hands, her eyes filled with a terrifyingly beautiful pity. “Adrian, I’ll wait for you. It’s only six months. I’ll help you rebuild everything when you get out.” I had clutched her sleeve like a drowning person grabbing a raft. “The dashcam… there’s a memory card in the car. It proves I wasn’t driving!” Scarlett had remained silent for a long, agonizing minute. The lights in the hallway had flickered off, leaving us in darkness. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “That card… it will destroy Damian.” I watched her walk out to the driveway, pull the memory card from the device, and grind it into the gravel with a heavy stone. The plastic fragments scattered at my feet. She had reached up to wipe my tears, whispering, “I love you. But this is the only way to save him.” I had been so naive. I actually believed six months would pass quickly, and that they would keep their promise to bring me home. On the day the transport van took me away, the sky was a mocking, brilliant blue. Through the grated window, I saw Damian boarding a car for the airport, wearing the performance suit meant for my debut. He was leaving for Europe’s finest conservatory. Scarlett stood by the vehicle, opening the door for him. I pulled myself out of the memories, looking at Doris and Scarlett. “Are you finished?” I asked quietly. “If you are, get out. You’re tracking mud into my bay.” I turned, pulled off my heavy apron, and walked into the small breakroom at the back of the shop. Under my cot was a dusty, battered cardboard box. It was the only thing Martha Pierce had left behind, delivered to me by a social worker shortly after she passed away. I knelt on the floor and slowly peeled back the yellowed packing tape. Inside lay a single handwritten letter, a worn leather journal filled with addresses and notes, and a faded receipt from an auto repair shop. I opened the letter. “Adrian, my sweet boy. I never believed for a second that you would hit someone and run. You couldn’t even bear to step on an insect when you were small; there is no way you would leave a human being to die.” The letter explained that after I was locked away, Martha had spent every single day trying to find the truth. She had walked the stretch of road where the accident occurred, visited the hospital, and questioned local mechanics. She had even gone to the Donald estate, begging for a copy of my trial records. The Donalds’ security had thrown her out, warning her that if she kept causing trouble, it would ruin my chances of early parole. She didn’t know the law, and she had no power, so she used the only tool she had: writing down every tiny discrepancy she could find. I folded the letter carefully, pressing it against my chest. A single tear slipped down my cheek, landing on the old scar on my wrist. Over the next two days, whenever my shift ended, I followed the addresses in Martha’s journal, trying to piece together the shattered remnants of that night. Just a single thread would do. On the third day, trouble came to the shop. A rusty cargo van screeched to a halt outside the bay, and several people wearing surgical masks leaped out. The woman leading them held up a giant, blown-up printout of an old newspaper article—the one featuring my mugshot from seven years ago. “Look at this monster!” her voice shrieked, instantly drawing a crowd of onlookers from the street. “This person is a convicted killer! She hit my husband, left him to die in the street, and only served six months before she got out!” “My husband is dead! My children grew up without a father!” she screamed, her voice cracking with manufactured rage. “How can this person work here like nothing happened?” People began pulling out their phones, recording the scene. A bucket of dirty, stagnant water was thrown from the crowd, splashing heavily against my shoulder. The foul-smelling liquid seeped beneath my collar. A man dressed in a black athletic hoodie walked through the gathering crowd, stopping right in front of me. He wore a mask, but I recognized his eyes instantly. Damian. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me. “Adrian, you should have stayed buried. Look at you. You really think you have the right to show your face around the Donalds again?” I stared at his retreating back as he slipped away into the crowd, my fingertips turning cold. The chaos continued to escalate until Maeve, the shop owner, rushed out from the back office and thrust herself between me and the crowd. She blocked the cameras and the debris with her own body, pulling out her phone to dial 911. “If you have a legal dispute, take it to the police!” Maeve yelled. “Anyone else throws something, and you’re getting cited for harassment!” The woman with the megaphone hesitated, but kept shouting, “She’s a murderer! She killed my husband!” I gripped my wet sleeve, looking directly at the woman. “What was your husband’s name?” The woman blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “What color clothes was he wearing that night?” I asked, my voice steady. “Which hospital was he taken to? Who did he speak to before he died? Do you know any of those details?” She took a half-step back, her eyes darting nervously. At the edge of the crowd, Doris’s Audi pulled to a stop. Scarlett was the first to get out, jogged over, and frowned when she saw the stains on my shirt. I stepped away before she could touch me. Her hand remained suspended in the air, a flash of embarrassment crossing her face. “Adrian, just apologize to them,” Scarlett whispered. “The family of the victim has a right to be angry. You shouldn’t provoke them. If this goes viral, it will ruin you—and it will look terrible for the Donalds.” I looked at her, and a dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. Seven years ago, she told me Damian was too fragile for prison and that I had to understand. Seven years later, she was telling me to bow my head to a screaming crowd to protect the Donald reputation. She always had someone more important to protect. And I was always the one who had to suffer in silence. Beatrice arrived next, leaning heavily on Doris’s arm, her eyes red and swollen from crying. “Adrian, if you just come home, the Donald PR team will handle all of this,” Beatrice pleaded. “I promise you, no one will ever bring up your past again.” I turned to look at her. “Handle it? Like you handled the dashcam seven years ago? Like you handled my appeal? Like you handled me?” Beatrice’s face drained of color. Doris stepped forward, her voice dropping to a cold, warning whisper. “Adrian, don’t let your petty resentment destroy the peace our family and Damian have built.” “Doris,” I said quietly, my voice carrying over the crowd. “Damian told you I only spent six months in prison, didn’t he?” Doris froze. Scarlett’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing her eyes. “What do you mean?” I didn’t answer. I walked into the back office, reached into the bottom drawer of my desk, and pulled out a thick manila folder. In the distance, police sirens wailed, growing louder until two officers parked at the curb. The crowd parted to let them through. “Who called?” one of the officers asked. I raised my hand. “I did. We have a crowd inciting a public disturbance, and I suspect someone has paid these individuals to harass me.” The woman with the megaphone yelled, “Officer, this person is a hit-and-run driver! She killed my husband!” I stepped forward and laid my manila folder on the hood of the police cruiser. Resting right on top was a certified certificate of release from the state penitentiary, stating that I had completed a full seven-year sentence. The black ink was stark against the official state seal. Scarlett leaned in to read the document, the color completely draining from her face. Doris stared at the words “Seven Years Served”, her lips parting, but no sound came out. “Officer,” I said, looking directly at the policeman. “I want to file a formal request to reopen the investigation into the fatal hit-and-run from seven years ago.” I pointed to the files in the folder. “I was framed. And I finally have the proof.”

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Ever since they took my right leg, winter has felt like a physical enemy. The cold settles directly into my bone, a dull, aching reminder of what I lost. Because of this, every winter Adam would clear his schedule completely, turning down every board meeting and corporate retreat just to take me to a tropical island where the warmth could soothe my body. On the nights when the phantom limb pain grew so intense that I shook violently under the sheets, he would kneel by the bedside until dawn, pressing his lips to my jagged, ugly scar over and over, whispering promises that I was safe. Everyone in our social circle raved about how devoted Adam was, how incredibly loyal he remained to a woman who was no longer whole. And for a long time, I considered myself lucky. I had lost a leg, but in return, I had found a love that was absolute and tender. After all, three years ago, it was his childhood sweetheart who had snatched away my rescue rope on that freezing, snow-covered mountain in the Swiss Alps, leaving me to fall and ultimately forcing the surgeons to saw off my leg. Adam had held me and wept for a whole night in that sterile hospital room. The very next day, he cut off all credit lines to her family’s business, ruthlessly driving them into bankruptcy. After that, no one in New York’s high society dared to cross me. Until our fifth annual winter getaway. I woke up in the middle of the night, startled by a sudden, violent thunderstorm, and reached out only to find his side of the bed cold and empty. Propping myself up on my crutches, I quietly made my way out of our master suite. Through the crack of the half-open door of the adjacent guest room, I saw her—Scarlett. The girl who was supposed to be ruined and living on the streets. Adam was holding her close to his chest, stroking her hair with a tenderness that made my stomach turn. “Don’t be scared,” he murmured softly. “It’s just a little thunder.” Scarlett pouted, hitting his chest playfully. “You spend every single day with that pathetic cripple. I’m sick of hiding in the shadows!” Adam leaned down, gently kissing the tears from her cheeks. “Be good, sweetheart. Just bear with it a little longer. I’m staying with you tonight.” … Scarlett snuggled deeper into Adam’s chest, her manicured fingers toying with the buttons of his silk pajama shirt. Her voice was dripping with disgust. “Doesn’t it make you sick? Going to her room every single night just to kiss that ugly, severed stump?” Outside, the torrential rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the deafening roar drowning out the sound of my ragged breathing. I should have turned around. I should have walked away. But my remaining foot felt as though it had been nailed to the floorboards. Adam let out a soft, low chuckle. “Charlotte is like a piece of shattered porcelain right now,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of the warmth he usually reserved for me. “If I don’t handle her with kid gloves, how else am I supposed to keep her quiet and compliant in that wheelchair?” Scarlett pouted. “But how much longer do you have to keep up this act?” “The Kingsley Foundation is going public next month. She’s our golden poster girl; we can’t afford a scandal before the IPO.” “But you’re dosing her with such heavy sedatives every single day. What if you kill her?” Adam’s voice remained cold and detached. “The doctor said it won’t kill her. It just ensures she sleeps soundly and stays out of the way.” I bit down hard on the back of my hand, my teeth sinking deep into my flesh. The metallic taste of blood quickly filled my mouth, but I didn’t let a single sound escape. Vitamins. That’s what he had called them. Two little white pills every night to “boost my immunity.” He had looked at me with such gentle eyes, cupping my cheek like I was a fragile child. “Be a good girl, Charlotte. Take these, and the pain will go away.” Three years ago, when I first woke up from the amputation surgery and saw the horrifying emptiness beneath my hospital gown, I had lost my mind. I threw tantrums, screaming, shattering every piece of medical equipment and glass within my reach. When Adam pushed the door open, I was holding a heavy ceramic lamp, ready to hurl it against the wall. Without a second thought, he fell to his knees right onto the sea of jagged glass. Blood immediately seeped through his trousers, dyeing his knees crimson, yet he seemed completely oblivious to the pain. He pulled me down into a fierce, desperate embrace, kissing my forehead over and over, his voice cracking. “Charlotte, from now on, I will be your right leg. I will never let you suffer again.” I had cried until my body went limp, collapsing into his arms, believing with every fiber of my being that no matter what storms lay ahead, this man would protect me. How pathetic. A wave of violent nausea surged up from my stomach. I slowly released my hand from my mouth, leaving a deep, purple ring of bruised teeth marks on my skin. Inside the room, Scarlett’s whiny voice drifted out again. “Then don’t leave tonight. She took her pills; she won’t wake up anyway.” Adam didn’t answer, but the rustle of sheets and Scarlett’s low, satisfied giggles spoke volumes. Outside, another clap of thunder shook the villa. I summoned every ounce of strength to steady the crutches under my arms, dragging my remaining leg as I retreated silently back into the pitch-black master bedroom. That night, I stared blankly at the ceiling, my eyes wide open. I listened to the muffled, agonizing sounds drifting from the next room until the first light of dawn broke through the clouds. In the morning, the storm still raged outside. The bedroom door clicked open quietly, and Adam walked in carrying a glass of warm water, his eyes filled with that same tender devotion I had trusted for years. “Morning, Charlotte. Are you awake?” He walked over, gently helping me sit up and placing a plush pillow behind my back. Then, he tapped two white pills from a bottle and held them out to my lips. “It rained hard last night. Your leg must be aching. Take your vitamins, sweetheart.” I stared at the two pills, motionless. A look of deep concern softened Adam’s features. “Come on, be good. The specialist prescribed these new vitamins specifically to help with the joint pain. You’ll feel much better once you take them.” I didn’t refuse. I opened my mouth, let him place the pills under my tongue, and took a sip of the water he held to my lips. “Good girl,” he murmured, smiling as he ran a hand through my hair. He turned around to pull open the heavy blackout curtains. The split second his back was turned, I tilted my head and spat the partially dissolved pills into my palm, curling my fingers into a tight fist. He paused halfway through drawing the curtains, as if sensing a shift in the air. “Charlotte? You’re unusually quiet today.” Adam turned around, his sharp gaze locking onto my face. Before I could react, he stepped forward, cupping his hand under my chin and forcing my face up. “Did you swallow them?” His eyes drilled into my lips. “Open up. Let me see.” My heart skipped a violent beat. Forcing my facial muscles to relax, I obediently opened my mouth, showing him a completely empty tongue. Adam stared intensely for two agonizing seconds before the suspicion in his eyes melted away. He let go of my chin, his thumb brushing my cheek with practiced affection. “Rest a little more. I’ll bring you some breakfast.” The moment the door clicked shut, I unfurled my sweaty palm. The chemical pills had already begun to turn chalky and melt against my skin. I popped open the small locket hanging around my neck, scraped the damp residue inside, and snapped it shut. When the storm finally cleared, the island was bathed in brilliant sunshine. Adam insisted the weather was too beautiful to waste and wheeled me down to the beach for some fresh air. The salty breeze whipped across my face, and as I watched the waves crash against the shore, my chest felt like a barren, frozen wasteland. “Thirsty? Let me grab you some fresh juice,” Adam said, positioning my wheelchair under the shade of a large umbrella before walking off toward the beachside bar. A few minutes later, a server in a crisp hotel uniform approached with a silver tray. She placed a tall glass on the small table next to me. “Your juice, Miss Kingsley.” At the sound of her voice, my entire body froze. I looked up. Scarlett was staring down at me, a smug, venomous smile playing on her lips. Adam, walking back from the bar, caught sight of her and his expression instantly darkened. He stormed over, stepping between us to shield me, and hissed in a low, furious whisper, “Who allowed you out here?” “What is she doing here?” I asked, my voice flat and icy. Scarlett’s reaction was seamless. Instantly, her eyes welled up with tears, sobbing softly. “Charlotte, please, I beg of you, just let me go!” She wept so pitifully that nearby resort guests began turning their heads to whisper. “Because of one word from you three years ago, my family lost everything! I’ve been stuck on this island scrubbing floors and serving tables just to survive. I know I made a mistake, but why won’t you let me live?” Every word was perfectly engineered to paint me as a cruel, vindictive heiress driving a poor, repentant girl to ruin. My body began to shake violently—a trauma response I couldn’t control. Adam noticed immediately. He dropped to one knee in front of my wheelchair, placing a comforting hand on my lap with just the right amount of pressure, exactly as he had done a thousand times over the last five years. “Charlotte,” he murmured quietly. “Take a deep breath. It’s okay. I’m right here.” I couldn’t speak. I could only stare at Scarlett. In my mind, the pristine beach dissolved, replaced by the howling winds of the Swiss Alps three years ago. The blizzard had been blinding. I was dangling over a precipice, my fingers turning blue as I desperately clawed at a slippery rock. Scarlett was standing right above me. She had looked down at me with a cold, malicious grin. Then, she raised her heavy snow boot and slammed it onto my frozen fingers. “Go to hell, Charlotte Kingsley.” For years, I had woken up in a cold sweat, haunted by that cruel sneer. Every time, Adam would pull me against his chest, kissing my hair, whispering, “It’s over, my love. It’s in the past. She paid for what she did.” So this was the price she paid. He had hidden her right under his nose, keeping her pampered and protected. A sudden, hot fury surged through my veins. I violently pushed Adam aside, forced myself up on my one good leg, and swung my arm, slapping Scarlett across the face with everything I had. The force of the blow snapped her head to the side. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her lip as she stared at me in absolute shock. The entire beach area fell dead silent. The fake tenderness in Adam’s eyes vanished in an instant. He stepped forward, pushing me back down into the wheelchair with a heavy hand, his brow furrowed in deep annoyance. “Have you lost your mind?” I looked up at him, my voice trembling. “I’m the one making a scene?” Adam let out a long sigh, his face a mask of disappointment. “She has suffered enough, Charlotte. She paid her dues. Look at yourself—bitter, cruel, vindictive. Don’t let your hatred turn you into an ugly, unrecognizable monster.” I stared at his handsome, hypocritical face. Three years ago, he swore on his life that he would make Scarlett suffer. Today, he was lecturing me for being monstrous. I didn’t argue. I silently brushed his hand off my shoulder, grabbed the wheels, and spun my chair around, pushing myself back toward the resort. Behind me, Scarlett’s whimpering voice carried over the sound of the ocean. “Adam, it hurts so bad…” followed by his quiet, soothing reply: “I know, baby. Let’s get you some ice.” I didn’t look back. I only felt that the warm tropical sun had never felt so freezing. By nightfall, a severe hurricane made landfall on the island. Howling winds slammed the rain against the glass panes, cutting off all ferry services and internet connection to the mainland. At two in the morning, I rolled off the bed, crashing hard onto the floor. Without the heavy sedatives in my system, a brutal wave of withdrawal symptoms coupled with phantom limb pain hit me all at once. The phantom stump of my right leg throbbed with a burning, white-hot agony that left me trembling. Cold sweat soaked through my silk nightgown. Desperate for a drink of water to soothe my parched throat, I reached for the glass pitcher on the nightstand, but my hands were shaking so violently that I knocked it to the floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces. Jagged shards sliced deep into my palms as I tried to crawl, blood pooling on the polished hardwood floor. Right then, the door swung open. Adam and Scarlett stood side-by-side in the doorway. They were wearing matching silk pajamas, their coordinated outfits looking like a cruel mockery in the dim light of the stormy night. Scarlett’s eyes lit up when she saw the bloody mess. She quickly hurried over, putting on a show. “Oh my goodness, Charlotte! What happened? Let me help you up!” She knelt down beside me, her voice dripping with mock concern. Seeing this, Adam turned and went back to the living room to find the first-aid kit. The absolute second his back was turned, the mask slipped. Scarlett reached out and grabbed the sensitive, scarred stump of my right leg, driving her sharp acrylic nails deep into the tender flesh. “You were so tough this afternoon, weren’t you?” she whispered in my ear, her voice venomous. “Look at you now, groveling on the floor. You’re nothing but a pathetic, crippled dog.” Pure survival instinct took over. I lashed out, shoving her away with all my remaining strength. “Get off me!” Scarlett let out a dramatic, piercing shriek and threw herself backward, landing directly in the pile of broken glass. Shards sliced into her forearm, and blood began to seep through her sleeve. Clutching her bleeding arm, she looked toward the door with tear-rimmed eyes. “Adam! It hurts so much…” Adam rushed back in with the medical kit. He didn’t even glance in my direction. He immediately dropped down, pulled Scarlett into his arms, and carefully inspected her bleeding arm with frantic worry. Once he was certain her wounds were shallow, he finally whipped his head around to glare at me. “I let it slide this afternoon because I thought you were just overwhelmed,” he spat, his voice trembling with a cold, controlled rage. “But she was trying to help you, and you pull a vicious stunt like this? Charlotte, when is your madness going to end?” Scarlett whimpered, trembling against his chest. “Adam, I’m terrified of her… What if she tries to hurt me again?” Adam’s gaze drifted down, landing coldly on my right leg. He released Scarlett and stepped toward me. “For your own safety—and everyone else’s—you need to calm down,” he said flatly. He reached down toward the harness of my prosthetic leg. My eyes went wide with sheer terror. I clawed at his hands, trying to shield my leg. “Adam! No! What are you doing? Let go of me!” Click. He stripped away my prosthetic leg without a shred of mercy. It was my last piece of dignity, and now he was tearing it away from me. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, my voice hoarse. “As soon as this storm passes, I’m going home.” Adam let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Go home? Charlotte, the accounts for your foundation were frozen yesterday. Tell me, who is left in your family to come and save you? You can’t even make it past that door on your own. Just be good and stay put.” With that, he wrapped an arm around Scarlett and walked out, locking the heavy bedroom door from the outside. Slumped on the floor amidst the bloody shards of glass, I stared at the closed door. After a long, deafening silence, a low laugh escaped my throat. I laughed until tears streamed down my face. I was an only child. When I was ten, feeling desperately lonely, I begged my parents to adopt an older brother for me. To make me happy, they brought home twelve-year-old Adam. He became the cherished eldest son of the Kingsley family, and eventually, the person I leaned on for everything. When my parents died in a tragic car accident and I lost my leg, the senior board members who held power in our family company were systematically ousted by Adam under various pretexts. “Charlotte, they’re greedy vultures trying to take advantage of you,” he had whispered, comforting me. “I’m only doing this to protect your inheritance.” How blind I had been. I couldn’t see the insatiable, predatory ambition hiding behind his protective facade. My family was gone, yes. But so what? I was still alive. And as long as I breathed, there was a way. By the next morning, the hurricane had weakened into a tropical depression. An urgent public relations crisis had apparently broken out at the corporate headquarters in New York, forcing Adam to head to the resort’s business center early to handle it. The lock on my door clicked open, and Scarlett strolled in. She walked over to the nightstand and lazily kicked over the fresh glass of water that had been kept just out of my reach. The water spilled across the floor. “Thirsty?” she sneered, looking down her nose at me. “Why don’t you lick it off the floor like the dog you are?” I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. I just stared at her, cold and unblinking. Scarlett took a step closer, letting out a sharp laugh. “You still think you’re the high-and-mighty Charlotte Kingsley, don’t you?” “Charlotte… do you still believe I was the one who caused your amputation?” My eyes narrowed, my posture instantly stiffening. Delighted by my sudden shock, her smile grew wider. “I was dangling halfway off that cliff myself. Where on earth would I have found the leverage to kick you off?” She leaned in close, whispering each syllable right into my ear. “It was Adam. He had someone partially cut your backup safety rope before we even started the climb.” My pupils dilated in sheer horror. “What a pathetic little heiress you are.” Scarlett smirked, savoring every second of my silent devastation. “Your parents’ fatal crash, your missing leg—it was all engineered by the loving big brother you trusted so blindly. You practically invited the devil into your home and let him destroy your entire family.” “You’re lying,” I choked out, my voice cracking. No matter how much Adam might have secretly resented me, my parents had given him a life of luxury and loved him as their own son. How could any human being be so cold-blooded? “If you want to drive a wedge between us, at least come up with a believable lie,” I sneered back, trying to steady my racing heart. “Believe what you want.” Scarlett shrugged, standing up and humming a light tune as she turned to leave. She was too blinded by her own smugness. She didn’t notice that during her dramatic display, a spare burner phone had slipped from her pocket. The moment she turned her back, I quietly swept it under the edge of my blanket. Late that night, another downpour began lashing the villa. When Adam opened the door, I was already tucked beneath the sheets. I kept my eyes closed, forcing my trembling body to lie perfectly still, feigning the deep, drug-induced sleep he expected. He walked to the edge of the bed and gently tucked the covers around me. A moment later, he quieted his footsteps and stepped out onto the covered balcony. He left the sliding glass door open just a crack. Through the whistling wind and rain, I could hear him speaking to his assistant on the phone. “I don’t care how much money that bastard in London wants! Keep his mouth shut!” Adam’s voice was stripped of its usual warmth, sounding sharp and venomous. The assistant on the other end must have voiced a concern, because Adam let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Greedy bastard.” “Remind him that he was the one who physically cut Charlotte’s rope on that mountain. I only funded it; his hands did the deed. If this gets out, I have a dozen ways to salvage my reputation. He won’t survive it. Tell him to think very carefully about his next move.” The call ended, leaving nothing but the sound of the storm outside. Inside the dark bedroom, I pressed both hands over my mouth, sobbing soundlessly as tears flooded my face. It was true. Every horrifying word of it. The man who had wept over my hospital bed, the man who swore to be my right leg, was the very monster who had orchestrated my fall. I had spent three years living inside a beautifully constructed lie, playing the grateful, fragile fool. But as the wave of grief washed over me, a strange, crystalline clarity settled in its place. Masked by a loud crack of thunder, I pulled Scarlett’s burner phone from beneath the mattress. My fingers shook violently, but my mind was perfectly steady as I dialed a number from memory. The call connected on the second ring, and a man’s anxious voice filled the receiver. “Charlotte? The island has been off the grid for days—are you okay? Did Adam—” “Gideon,” I interrupted, my voice flat and remarkably calm. “I need you to find the lead rescue officer from the Swiss expedition, a man named Officer Keller. Find him, and get me the forensic report on the cut safety rope.”

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On my birthday, my nearsighted boyfriend didn’t wear his glasses and accidentally slipped the engagement ring onto my best friend’s finger. Summer gasped, her hand freezing in mid-air as she made a show of trying to slide it off. But before she could, Christian spoke up. “It’s fine. Caroline doesn’t mind.” Summer let out a bright, easy laugh. “Honestly, Christian, only you could pull a stunt like this on such a big night.” I watched them giggle and banter, the warmth of the restaurant fading into a cold, sharp clarity. It was in that quiet moment that I finally decided to bow out of our little trio. For the five years we had been together, Christian’s favorite refrain was always that I didn’t mind. When the front passenger seat of his car went from being my exclusive spot to Summer’s because of her “severe motion sickness,” he told me I didn’t mind. When he took the project proposal I had stayed up for three nights straight to organize and put Summer’s name on the cover page, he told me I didn’t mind. And now, even when the ring meant for me was slipped onto another woman’s hand, his excuse remained unchanged. That single phrase had become his ultimate shield, a free pass to indulge his blatant favoritism toward Summer without ever having to feel guilty. Later, at the dinner table, our friends started chanting for me to make a wish. But Christian spoke first, his smile soft and affectionate. “I’ll make it for us. I wish that the three of us never, ever change.” The breeze from the open window blew out the candles on my cake, and with them, the very last embers of my love for him. For my new year, I closed my eyes and made a silent plea to whatever forces were listening: Let me never cross paths with Christian again for the rest of my life. … The dinner party ended in a heavy, awkward silence. Christian was the first to stand, reaching over to pick up Summer’s bright pink trench coat as naturally as if it were his own. I stood near the exit of the private dining room, watching him meticulously straighten her collar, smoothing out the fabric with practiced ease. He finally turned his gaze to me. “Caroline, Summer had a bit too much to drink tonight. I’m going to drive her home first.” He offered a patronizing smile. “Take an Uber back, okay? Be a good girl.” He reached out to pat my head, but I took a step back, letting his hand hang in the empty air. The atmosphere in the room turned instantly rigid. Our friends quickly chimed in, urging me not to make a big deal out of it. They began piling my birthday gifts into my arms all at once. Unable to hold them all, several packages slipped from my grip, scattering across the carpeted floor. Summer leaned into Christian, wrapping her arm tightly around his elbow. She blinked at me with a look of theatrical remorse. “Caroline, Christian is just looking out for me. You aren’t mad at me, are you?” I forced the corners of my mouth upward, keeping my voice level. “Of course not. Go ahead.” They walked out side-by-side, leaving me alone to kneel on the floor, gathering my dropped presents one by one. When I finally unlocked the door to our quiet, empty apartment and took off my coat, I realized my keys were missing their keychain. It was a small, hand-stitched leather piece I had crafted myself, embossed with the date of our anniversary. I remembered how Christian had tried to help me with the final thick stitches, his fingers getting so badly pricked by the heavy leather needle that they were dotted with tiny scabs. At the time, he had held my hands and promised, “I’ll never lose this, Caroline. Not in this lifetime.” But at dinner tonight, Summer had mentioned how much she loved it. Christian had simply smiled at me and said, “Caroline, Summer is always losing her keys. Let her use this one for a bit, and I’ll make you a brand-new one later.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, staring into the dark living room as memories of our years together played on a loop in my head. At 2:00 AM, the front door finally clicked open. Christian walked in, slipping his arms around me from behind. The distinct, heavy scent of gardenia perfume—Summer’s signature—clung to his clothes. He pulled a small box of cold medicine from his pocket and set it on the coffee table. “I heard you cough a couple of times during dinner. I stopped by a pharmacy on the way back to grab this for you.” The box was sealed, but the adhesive tape on the side had been torn halfway open. I looked at it, my voice flat. “Thanks. I already took something.” Christian’s phone buzzed in his pocket. The screen lit up on the table, displaying a text from Summer: Just got in. Thanks for tonight, Christian. Goodnight. His long fingers flew across the screen as he typed a rapid reply, a tender, soft smile gracing his lips. I studied his profile in the dim light. “Christian, do you really think the way you and Summer act is appropriate?” “One of them is my boyfriend, and the other is my best friend. Yet you two seem to have an endless amount of private things to talk about.” His expression tightened. He leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to my forehead. “Caroline, don’t start overthinking again.” “You’re the one I love. Is your period coming up? You always get so sensitive when your hormones kick in.” Seeing his complete indifference, the urge to argue or demand an explanation died instantly inside me. That night, I opened my laptop, pulled up the relocation and transfer agreement for the Germany branch, and signed my name in the signature block. The next morning, Christian insisted on driving me to work. I habitually pulled down the passenger-side visor to check my hair, only to find a brand-new, lighted vanity mirror installed there. Christian cleared his throat quickly, glancing at me from the driver’s seat. “Summer insisted on putting that in. I told her no, but she…” I snapped the visor shut with a sharp clack and looked out the window. I had heard versions of this excuse a thousand times. It was a tired script, entirely incapable of hiding his absolute favoritism. The moment the car pulled up to my office building, Summer was already waiting by the entrance. She held a cup of coffee, which she handed to Christian through the open window with practiced familiarity. “Your iced Americano, Christian. Oh, and about the contract details for the Westside project this morning…” The two of them fell into step, walking side-by-side into the lobby, their voices fading as they discussed project timelines. It wasn’t until they reached the elevator bank that Summer suddenly realized I had been left behind. She jogged back toward me, wrapping her arm through mine. “Caroline, I am so, so sorry! The project details are just so urgent today, I completely lost track of things.” Christian stood by the open elevator doors, his gaze resting on me with cool composure. “It’s fine. Caroline doesn’t mind things like this.” I looked down at Summer’s hand clutching my arm, then looked up at Christian, offering him a peaceful, empty smile. “Right. I don’t mind.” The department meeting began promptly at ten. The spacious conference room was packed with department heads and executives. Summer stood at the front of the room, presenting the project proposal I had spent weeks preparing, speaking with supreme confidence. My mind drifted back to two nights ago, when Christian had knelt by my knees, gripping my hands tightly with eyes full of desperate pleading. “Caroline, Summer just joined the department. She desperately needs this project to prove herself and secure her position.” “Let her have this proposal. You two have been friends for over a decade. You can’t just watch her fail.” He seemed to have entirely forgotten that I, too, needed this exact project to secure my own promotion. Looking at her on the stage, a suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. I stood up, planning to step out into the hallway to get some air. Christian followed me out almost immediately, pressing a company credit card into my hand. “Caroline, if you walk out now, everyone in there is going to think you and Summer are having a falling out.” “Why don’t you head downstairs and grab coffee for the team? I forwarded the department’s order list to your phone.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Sure.” The moment the elevator doors closed, I let the tears fall freely. During my first year at the company, I was treated like an glorified intern. My daily routine consisted of copying files, fetching lunch orders, and running down the street for coffee. When Christian found out back then, he had marched straight into my manager’s office, furious. “Caroline’s title is Project Specialist. She was hired to do actual work, not to be your personal courier.” I walked to the coffee shop on the corner under the glaring midday sun, carrying back three cardboard trays loaded with drinks. The receptionist helped me carry some of the cups into the breakroom, leaning in with a curious whisper. “Hey, Caroline, are Christian and Summer dating? They look so perfect together. Total power couple vibes.” I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “Really? But the three of you are always together.” Christian and I had been together for seven years, yet at work, I existed like a shadow kept in the dark. Even when he had defended me years ago, he had never publicly acknowledged our relationship. In contrast, the rumors about him and Summer over the past two years had become common knowledge. I carried the tray of coffees back to the conference room, stopping when I saw the door was cracked open. Through the glass, I could see Summer playfully hitting Christian’s shoulder. Christian caught her by the wrist, laughing as their coworkers watched with knowing, teasing smiles. The moment I stepped inside, Christian let go of her wrist, though the warmth in his eyes remained. “Caroline, great news! Summer’s proposal was approved unanimously! Her promotion is basically a done deal now!” I didn’t say a word, placing the coffee cups in front of everyone one by one. When I handed Summer hers, her hand slipped halfway through the transfer. The cup tipped, and scalding hot coffee poured directly over the back of my hand. The skin turned a violent, angry red instantly, a fierce burning sensation ripping through my nerves. I gasped, flinching back from the pain. Christian’s face paled. He grabbed my wrist to look at the burn, his brows furrowing deeply. But before he could speak, Summer’s eyes welled with tears, her lower lip trembling. “I’m so sorry, Caroline. I didn’t mean to. I just… I haven’t been sleeping well lately, and I got so dizzy for a second.” Hearing that, the worry in Christian’s eyes shifted entirely to her. He still held my hand, but his words were directed at comforting Summer. “It’s okay, don’t blame yourself.” “Caroline is tough. She’ll be fine.” The raw, stinging heat on my skin was nothing compared to the cold ache settling deep in my chest. I pulled my hand out of his grip with a sharp tug, taking two steps back. “I’m going to take some sick leave and go to the clinic.” Christian started to say he would come with me, but Summer gently intervened. “Christian, you have that budget meeting this afternoon. You can’t miss it.” “How about I accompany Caroline instead?” I shook my head, walking past them. “No need.” I took a taxi to the hospital alone. The doctor was clinical and thorough, popping the blisters and disinfecting the raw skin. The pain made my vision blur. “This is a deep second-degree burn,” the doctor warned, wrapping my hand in sterile gauze. “If you don’t take care of it, it will scar. Keep it dry and away from water for the next few days.” As I sat in the waiting room, my phone vibrated with a social media notification. Summer had just posted an update. It was a photo of a limited-edition designer handbag sitting on her desk. The caption read: Thank you to a very special someone for the promotion gift! Absolutely obsessed! I had pointed out that exact bag to Christian months ago in a boutique window. He had told me it was a worldwide waiting list and completely impossible to get. It wasn’t impossible. I just wasn’t the person he wanted to buy it for. A few minutes later, a notification popped up on my phone. Christian had sent me five thousand dollars via Zelle, followed by a text: Don’t be mad, sweetie. Today was my fault. Use this to buy yourself a nice bag, and wait for me to get home tonight. I looked at the message, a self-deprecating laugh slipping from my lips, and hit ‘Decline Payment.’ Just then, an email from my university professor popped up in my inbox, confirming my selection. I typed out a quick reply: I accept the relocation to the Munich project team. Ready for the one-year closed-door assignment. The apartment was quiet when Christian came home. He sat beside me on the sofa, gently holding my bandaged hand, silent for a long time. His eyes grew red as he stared at the white gauze. “I’m so sorry, Caroline. I didn’t think it was this bad.” “I really didn’t mean for this to happen. I just thought…” I watched him, offering no reaction. “Things have been so crazy at the office lately, and the Vice President position is finally opening up. The pressure is eating me alive.” He squeezed my fingers gently. “Once I secure the promotion, we’ll get married. I promise.” I looked at his face, and for a fleeting second, the man before me overlapped with the eighteen-year-old boy who had stood beneath the podium at the State Chemistry Olympiad. Back then, we were fierce rivals. Our names always sat side-by-side at the top of the leaderboard, trading first and second place back and forth. We challenged each other, argued until we were blue in the face, and eventually became inseparable partners. Summer had despised him back then. “Caroline, why do you hang out with him? He’s so hyper-competitive. All he cares about is being number one.” Knowing how much her opinion mattered to me, Christian had organized a grand, public confession in front of the entire school to win my heart—and eventually, Summer’s approval. At eighteen, Christian’s love was fierce, bright, and loud. He was willing to stand against the world for me, his devotion burning like the summer sun. But somewhere along the way, he and Summer had grown closer, and I had been pushed to the cold periphery of my own life. I gently pulled my hand out of his grasp. “Christian, do you remember what you told me when we were eighteen?” “You said if you ever stopped loving me, you would tell me directly.” His body went rigid. He pulled me into a tight, desperate embrace, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Don’t talk like that, Caroline.” “Summer and I are just colleagues. She’s new, and she’s struggling with the learning curve, so I’m helping her out. The only reason we even hang out outside of work is because of you. You’re our bridge. We would never cross the line.” The words felt like ice, freezing the last bit of warmth left in my chest. The atmosphere at the office the next morning was tense. One of my junior team members had formally reported Summer to HR for plagiarizing my proposal. The entire department sat in a suffocating silence as the HR director reviewed the files. My colleagues kept glancing at me, their eyes filled with quiet, protective support. Summer’s face was completely drained of color. But Christian stood up without a single trace of hesitation. “Caroline copied Summer’s files out of curiosity a few days ago. That’s why the draft was found on her local drive.” “They’ve already resolved this privately. There was no plagiarism.” The room remained dead silent. Every eye turned to me. Christian stepped closer to my chair, keeping his voice incredibly low, meant only for my ears. “Caroline, just take the hit on this one. If you do, we’ll get married next month. I’ll make it up to you.” I looked at him, the corners of my lips lifting into a faint, empty smile. I grabbed a blank sheet of paper from my notebook, grabbed a pen, and wrote three words in bold letters: Letter of Resignation. “Mr. Director,” I said, sliding the paper across the desk. “I’m resigning. I’m done.” The room froze. A few people cleared their throats nervously, while others began quietly gathering their files, slipping out of the room in small groups. Summer walked over to me, her eyes red and swimming with tears. “Caroline, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to ruin things for you.” The tears spilled down her cheeks, a picture-perfect display of vulnerability. I simply smiled. Fifteen years of friendship, ending in a farce. Christian rubbed his temples, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Caroline, there’s absolutely no need to resign over a misunderstanding.” I pushed the letter closer to him. “I’m not throwing a tantrum. I’ll complete my hand-off over the next two days.” “I’m tired of being here. I need a change of scenery.” He frowned, studying my face for a long moment before letting out a long sigh. “Fine. Take some time off. I’ll book you a trip to Iceland. Go clear your head.” I went back to my desk without a word and started packing my things into a cardboard box. The only thing I left behind was the framed photo at the corner of my desk—a picture of the three of us laughing on our college graduation day. A chime sounded from my phone. It was an email confirmation for the Iceland tour Christian had booked. I deleted it without reading. By the time I dragged my suitcase out of the apartment we had shared for three years, he still hadn’t come home. Sitting in the bustling departure terminal of the airport, my phone began to ring. It was Christian. I hesitated, wondering how I would explain why I wasn’t on a flight to Reykjavik. Ultimately, I decided to give our five years together a clean, dignified ending. The moment I pressed accept, his frustrated voice came through the line. “Caroline, that plagiarism accusation still managed to freeze Summer’s promotion.” “Can you write a formal statement? Just say you accidentally copied her files. It doesn’t have to be complicated.” I said nothing. He paused, then continued, his tone softening. “It’s just a little bit of office gossip, Caroline. Once I get the Vice President position, I’ll bring you back and promote you myself. No one will dare say a word to you then.” “And once you’re Vice President,” I asked quietly, “what roles do Summer and I get?” There was a brief silence on the other end. “Summer will get the Manager position. And you…” He lowered his voice, adopting a soothing, placating tone. “A Director role. That’s a huge step up.” I couldn’t even remember when it had started—this unspoken rule that the best things in life always had to be saved for Summer. When we shared a watermelon, the sweet center had to go to Summer. And now, the higher career path belonged to her too. I didn’t wait for him to finish his empty promises. I hung up the phone and immediately blocked both his number and Summer’s. As the boarding announcement echoed through the terminal, my phone lit up with a message from an old contact—our wedding planner. Caroline! Congratulations! Christian contacted us today to finalize the venue deposit and lock in the vintage estate package you loved… A dull, familiar ache throbbed in my chest. The dream wedding I had wanted for years had turned into nothing more than leverage to force me into taking the fall for plagiarism. I typed out a quick reply: Please cancel the booking. The wedding is off. I won’t be marrying him. I picked up my carry-on, joined the queue of passengers, and boarded the flight to Germany. Our messy, crowded story ended right there.

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The night of Deborah’s promotion dinner celebrating her new role as Regional Director, my bag held more than just a pair of solid gold bracelets I’d custom-ordered. Tucked inside the inner pocket of my coat was an exclusive five-million-dollar buyout contract for my signature BBQ rub recipe, finalized just the night before. I had planned to give her the surprise of her life, but my younger sister, Gina, insisted we test my now-high-and-mighty wife first. “Adam, let’s tell her my old injury flared up and I desperately need thirty thousand dollars for surgery…” “Sure,” I said. “Let’s see what your sister-in-law’s attitude really is.” … “Thirty thousand? Do you street-vendors have any sense of boundary? Have the permit fees I’ve paid for your food truck these past few years not been enough? Now you want me to pay for your surgery too?” “Get out!” “Take your garbage and get the hell out of my sight!” Before the words even settled, Deborah swept a jar of hand-sliced sweet pickles off the table, sending it crashing onto the floor. The glass shattered, scattering shards everywhere. Dark, vinegary brine oozed out, mixing with the dirt from the street on the edge of her expensive Persian rug. That jar of pickles was something Gina had spent days peeling and slicing, working through the night. She had a permanent limp, and to bring a little side dish to cut the grease of Deborah’s fancy celebration dinner, her fingertips had turned pruned and pale from the vinegar. I stared at the broken glass, my fists clenching slowly. Deborah pinched her nose, taking two steps back. She was wearing a designer gown, her makeup flawless, her face twisted in pure disgust. “Jared, look at the mess they’re making.” Her voice was freezing the air. “I despise that cheap grease smell. Get them out of here now. Another second and I’m going to throw up.” Hearing this, Jared’s face darkened instantly. Just moments ago, he had been coaxing her to drink with a warm, charming smile. Now, looking at us, his expression held nothing but raw impatience. He stepped right over the spilled pickles and grabbed Gina by the shoulder of her worn jacket—a faded hand-me-down that Deborah had discarded years ago. “Look, I’m begging you guys, okay?” Jared said under his breath, his tone dripping with mockery. “Deborah just got her promotion today. You show up here begging for thirty grand? Have some dignity.” Gina couldn’t stand steadily; she leaned heavily against the doorframe, her scarred leg trembling under her weight. “Deborah, I didn’t mean to ruin your night,” she spoke slowly, softly. “My leg is killing me. The doctor said the metal plate shifted and I need surgery immediately. Back when we were trying to scrape together your tuition and housing deposit for grad school abroad, I took that night delivery gig… that’s how I got hit by the truck…” Deborah cut her off sharply. “Enough. Always bringing up the past.” She knit her brows, as if listening to some ancient curse. “Tuition, deposits… how many years are you going to keep bringing that up? I don’t have spare cash right now. If you don’t have money, stick to your food truck. What are you doing in a high-end restaurant like this anyway?” I stood to the side, silent. My bag wasn’t empty. Inside my coat pocket lay the five-million-dollar contract, its edges stiff against my chest. Today was supposed to be her big night. I wanted to slip the contract into her gift box, a quiet reassurance that she didn’t have to push herself so hard anymore. But Gina had wanted to test her. She said Deborah had climbed too high now, and that Jared was always hovering around her like a moth to a flame. Let’s see how she reacts to a plea for thirty thousand. I had been reluctant. But now, the truth was bare. The test didn’t reveal a wife’s loyalty. It revealed two hollow, gold-digging faces. “Gina, don’t beg anymore,” I said, putting my arm around her to support her weight. “We’re leaving.” Jared, eager to please Deborah, took a step forward and shoved Gina’s shoulder. “Go on, get out. Don’t dirty Deborah’s space.” Gina was already unstable. That single shove sent her off-balance, stumbling backward. With a dull, sickening thud, the back of her head slammed against the marble pillar in the corridor. The sound wasn’t loud. But my chest went entirely hollow. “Oh, please,” Deborah rolled her eyes. “Can’t get the money, so now we’re faking injuries?” As I rushed to catch her, my canvas bag slipped. A thin manila envelope slid out of the opening. It wasn’t the original contract; it was a photocopy I’d made late last night. I had planned to show her the copy first and take her to the notary after dinner. Deborah looked down at it. She planted her stilettos right on the paper and ground her heel down with a cruel twist. “Brought an envelope, did we?” she sneered. “So thin. What’s in here, the food truck’s unpaid bills?” She kicked the envelope away. It slid across the slick floor, stopping in the corner next to a janitor’s cart. The private dining room door slammed shut. Thud. The hallway fell into a freezing silence. The air conditioning hummed, blowing cold air that cut to the bone. I turned to Gina. She was leaning against the pillar, her face a terrifying shade of pale, her lips turning blue. She clutched her chest, gasping for air in shallow, ragged bursts. “Gina!” My hands shook as I knelt beside her. I scrambled through her pockets, but her emergency inhaler and heart pills were empty. My mind went blank. I ran to the door and pounded on it with everything I had. “Deborah! Open the door! Gina is having an attack! Call an ambulance!” From inside came the clinking of glasses and laughter. Then Jared’s sycophantic voice: “Deborah, I got rid of them. Here, look at this necklace. Do you like it?” Nobody opened the door. I stood there, my palms numb from pounding. The silence from within was absolute. Slowly, I lowered my hands. In that moment, I realized the door wasn’t just closed. It was locked forever. I pulled out my phone and dialed another number. It was Casey, my apprentice, who wasn’t family by blood but called me big brother anyway. “Casey,” my voice cracked the second she picked up. “Gina is going under. I’m out of options.” The other end went dead silent for a beat. Then came the heavy clatter of a wrench hitting a concrete floor. Casey’s voice shook violently. “Adam, which hospital? I’m on my way. Wait for me.” I hung up and looked at the corner of the hallway. The trampled envelope lay soaking in the dirty water dripping from the janitor’s cart. I stared at it for a long time. Five million dollars. You kicked it away yourself. Late night, St. Jude’s General Hospital ER. The fluorescent lights in the hallway were blindingly white. I sat on the hard bench, my clothes stained with blood, my fingers trembling. The emergency room door swung open, and a nurse walked out holding a clipboard. “Family of Gina Cooper?” “She has acute heart failure complicated by intracranial bleeding. We need to operate immediately. We need a fifty-thousand-dollar deposit and your signature. Any later and she won’t make it.” Fifty thousand. I touched the contract in my pocket. The corporate finance department of the restaurant group wouldn’t open until 9:00 AM tomorrow. This paper was worth five million dollars, but at this desk right now, it couldn’t buy a ticket to save her life. I leaned against the wall and called Deborah. The first went to voicemail. The second, hung up. By the thirteenth try, she finally answered. There was soft piano music in the background, mixed with Jared’s low chuckling. “Are you out of your mind?” Deborah whispered, her voice laced with intense irritation. “I am in the middle of a business meeting with Jared. If you call again, I’m calling security.” “Deborah,” I said, my hand gripping the phone so hard it hurt. “Gina is in the ER at St. Jude’s. The doctor says she needs immediate surgery. I need fifty thousand dollars. Think of it as a loan. I will pay you back tomorrow. I swear.” Silence fell over the line. Then she laughed. It was a soft, mocking sound that sliced through my ears. “Fifty thousand?” she sneered. “Adam, put a limit on your acting. With that trashy food truck of yours, where would you ever get fifty grand to repay me?” “I told you, I have it.” “Just shut up,” her voice dropped. “If she’s dying, why waste the money anyway? Wouldn’t that fifty thousand be better spent buying Jared a new designer suit?” My throat tightened, but no sound came out. She continued, “Actually, it’s better if she dies. Once that food truck permit and our night market lease transfer to my name, I can clear at least a hundred grand. If you two are going to die, do it somewhere far away. Don’t come looking to bleed me dry for your bottomless pit.” The line went dead. When I called back, I was blocked. I stood in the sterile hallway, the phone still pressed to my ear. Her words—it’s better if she dies—echoed in my head. This was the woman I had cherished for seven years. This was the woman Gina and I had ruined our eyes in the grease and smoke to put through graduate school. Suddenly, hurried footsteps echoed from the end of the hall. “Where’s the doctor? Adam!” Casey came rushing in. She was covered in engine grease and mud, looking like she’d just been pulled out of a swamp. Rainwater dripped from her frayed windbreaker. One of her work boots had a sole that was practically peeling off, leaving muddy tracks on the clean tiles. She ran up to me, pulling a plastic bundle from her chest. It was wrapped in several layers of waterproof tarp. Her hands shook so badly she couldn’t untie the knot, so she bit it open with her teeth. Inside was a stack of bills. Hundreds, twenties, crumpled singles, and a pawn receipt stamped with a red thumbprint. “Adam, I sold my tow truck from the repair shop,” she panted, her voice cracking. “And I borrowed some cash from the construction site foreman. There’s interest, but we’ll worry about that later. Save Gina first.” She shoved the money into my hands and bolted toward the nurse’s station. Halfway there, her knees buckled, and she fell hard onto one knee. “Nurse!” She looked up, her eyes bloodshot. “We have the money. Please save my sister. Use the best medicine. If you need blood, take mine. I’m young, I have plenty.” The nurse blinked, startled, and quickly took the forms. I looked down at the money in my hands. It was damp, smelling of rain and the heavy slickness of motor oil. My wedded wife sat in a five-star restaurant saying it was better if my sister died. A girl who shared no blood with us had sold the tools she used to feed herself, taken a predatory loan, and brought the money to save my sister’s life. Standing there, everything became clear. Some bonds are created by a marriage certificate. Some bonds are forged in the soul. The paper can be fake. The heart is always real. I paid the deposit. When I signed my name, my hand was completely steady. Deborah. You want that food truck spot so badly? I’ll make sure you end up with absolutely nothing. Gina survived. After leaving the ICU, she spent two weeks in the hospital. By the time she was discharged, her old leg injury had worsened, leaving her confined to a wheelchair. We didn’t go back to the house we used to call “home.” We didn’t look for Deborah. Casey brought us to her repair shop next to the construction site. Her corrugated metal shack was barely three hundred square feet. When it rained heavily, the roof rattled like a drum, and old tires were stacked in the corners. But she had scrubbed the folding cot spotless. Laying Gina down on it and sitting beside her, I felt a peace I hadn’t known in years. To pay off the high-interest loan and buy nutrients for Gina, Casey worked under dump trucks until 2:00 AM every night. During the day, she pulled double shifts, hauling scrap metal at the junkyard. Gina wept, begging her to take a day off. Casey wiped the grease off her face, flashing a bright grin. “No way. I’ve got my brother and Gina to feed. We need to eat well.” One evening, Casey brought in a huge bowl of slow-simmered beef rib soup. The meat fell off the bone, tender and rich. She set it by Gina’s bed, her face breaking into a wide smile. “Adam, the boss finally settled last month’s invoice today. Eat up, you and Gina.” I glanced out at the workbench. On the cold metal table lay Casey’s own dinner: half a plate of pickled cabbage and two cold, hard biscuits. I picked up the spoon, a thick lump rising in my throat. Right then, my phone buzzed. Deborah’s name flashed on the screen. She had unblocked me. I pressed answer and put it on speaker. First came the roar of an excavator, followed by the crashing sound of metal frames being torn down. “Adam, do you hear that?” Deborah’s voice was light, almost cheerful. “I’m at your food truck spot.” My hand froze. Casey looked up. Gina opened her eyes. “What are you doing there?” I asked. “Tearing it down, obviously,” she said, completely matter-of-fact. “Jared loves this location. He wants to set up an outdoor patio for a boutique coffee stand here. Gina is a useless cripple who can’t work anyway, so this ugly old truck is just an eyesore. I hired some guys to smash your sign.” In the background, Jared’s voice drifted through: “Hey, sell those burners and grills as scrap metal. They’re covered in grease. It’s disgusting.” Gina’s hands clenched the thin blanket. She tried to sit up but didn’t have the strength. “Deborah,” I said, cold and slow. “Don’t you dare touch that truck.” “Oh, and what are you going to do about it?” she sneered. “We’re married. I legally own half of this business and the permit. Jared says a coffee stand here can bring in thousands a month. If you’re smart, you’ll hand over the business license. Otherwise, I’ll have you and your junk dragged out of here. You can rot in that grease-monkey’s doghouse for all I care.” Casey’s eyes flared red. She grabbed a heavy steel wrench from the floor. “Adam, I’m going to go kill her.” “Put the wrench down,” I said softly, staring at the screen. The call-recording timer was ticking away. Every single word she said was being recorded. I spoke into the phone again. “Deborah. You’re tearing down your husband’s business just to make room for Jared’s coffee shop?” “Duh,” she said. “Jared is a man of class. He drinks pour-over. Your grease-slicked, smoky little dump doesn’t even compare.” Gina closed her eyes, tears slipping down her pale cheeks. Looking at my sister, a profound calm settled over me. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll handle the lease myself. Watch yourselves.” I hung up. The metal shack fell silent, save for the wind rattling the corrugated roof. I took a warm towel and wiped the tears from Gina’s face. “Don’t cry, Gina,” I murmured. “Soon, you won’t have a sister-in-law anymore.” The next morning, at dawn, Casey was putting on her overalls to head back under the trucks. I stopped her. “Casey.” She turned around. “Yeah, Adam?” I patted my inner coat pocket. The original five-million-dollar contract had been sealed in a waterproof bag and tucked safely against my chest. “Don’t go to work today,” I said. “Come with me uptown. Let’s take back what’s ours.” The corporate headquarters of the restaurant group was quiet in the morning. We verified the recipe, went through the legal checks, signed the final papers, and processed the wire transfer. Within an hour, a notification chimed on my phone. The numbers glowed on the screen: $4,200,000 after taxes. I stared at it for a moment, then slid the phone back into my pocket. Casey stood beside me, her breath hitching. “Adam… is this… real?” “It’s real,” I said. “And to think, I almost gave this away to someone else.” She didn’t ask another question. That afternoon, I took her to The Galleria in the city center. The polished marble floors were bright enough to act as mirrors. When Casey stepped inside, she looked lost, not knowing where to put her hands or feet. She stared down at her work boots, which still bore deep stains of black motor oil. “Adam, why are we here?” she whispered. “This place isn’t for people like us.” “It wasn’t before,” I said, looking ahead. “It is now.” As soon as the words left my mouth, a sharp laugh echoed from the luxury watch boutique nearby. “Excuse me, miss,” a haughty voice called out to a sales associate. “Does this store have no standards anymore? Since when do you let grease monkeys wander in?” I looked up. Deborah was standing at the counter, holding a men’s luxury watch. The price tag was dangling—$240,000. When she saw Casey and me, her face contorted with even deeper disgust than the night before. Jared was standing right next to her, staring at his phone with a slight frown. Hearing Deborah’s voice, he looked up. When his eyes landed on me, they lit up instantly. It wasn’t joy. It was the naked greed of a predator catching the scent of money. He pushed past the sales associate and marched over to me. “Well, well,” Jared said, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Adam, no wonder you had the balls to ignore Deborah’s calls. Did you sell the food truck permit behind her back?” He reached out, his hand lunging toward my chest. “Where is the cash? You got a hundred grand on you? Hand it over. Deborah is a little short on the balance for my watch.” I took a step back. Casey instantly stepped in front of me. “Don’t touch my brother,” she said, her voice hard. Jared hadn’t expected a skinny mechanic girl to stand in his way. When Casey gave him a firm shove, his polished shoes slipped on the slick marble, and he stumbled backward into the glass display case. His face flushed crimson. “You white-trash grease monkey! An outsider dares to lay a hand on me? You’re trying to steal Deborah’s marital assets, aren’t you?” Deborah immediately started yelling. “Security! Where is security?! These two bums are causing a scene!” Two security guards came running over. The head guard glanced at Deborah, then looked at our cheap clothes. Without asking what had happened, he grabbed Casey’s arm to shove her. “Out! Both of you, out!” The guard was heavy-handed. Casey, exhausted from working through the night, was caught off guard and thrown off balance. She crashed hard onto the cold floor. Her palm scraped against the stone, tearing open a large patch of raw skin that began to bleed. My chest tightened with sudden fury. “Casey!” She didn’t cry out. She scrambled back to her feet immediately, throwing herself in front of me like a battered but unbreakable wall. Jared, emboldened by the guards, pointed a finger right at my nose. “Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can hold onto Deborah’s money?” He sneered. “Hand over the transfer cash right now. Otherwise, you aren’t leaving this mall on your own two feet.” A crowd had gathered. People were filming with their phones, some whispering that we looked like scammers trying to cause trouble. Deborah stood to the side, casually inspecting her manicure. “Pathetic,” she muttered. “A street vendor and a junkyard rat, trying to play big spenders at The Galleria.” I looked at the thin line of blood trickling down Casey’s palm. Suddenly, the anger washed out of me, replaced by a cold, absolute calm. I reached out and gently pulled Casey back by her shoulder. “Casey, step aside.” She looked back at me. “Adam…” “Step aside.” I walked up to Jared. He flinched slightly, his eyes darting around. I looked him dead in the eye. “You want to know what kind of money I have?” I reached into my inner coat pocket. Under the gaze of the crowd, I pulled out the original acquisition contract bearing the official gold seal of the restaurant group. Along with it, I drew out a freshly minted Amex Centurion Black Card. I laid them both flat on the pristine glass countertop. My voice wasn’t loud. But the entire boutique fell dead silent.

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Alvis and I were together for six years. During that entire time, his heart had only wandered once, a brief and quiet lapse three years ago. Aside from that single shadow, our lives together had been clean, beautiful, and entirely without flaw. He was a world-renowned pioneer in artificial intelligence—cool, analytical, and obsessed with absolute precision. People often described Alvis as detached, even clinical, but with me, his attention to detail bordered on the supernatural. The water he poured for me was always exactly one hundred and seven degrees. If it was a single degree off, he would silently dump it down the drain and start over. If my voice pitched even slightly higher than usual—whether from excitement or mild frustration—he would abandon his keyboard in a heartbeat, leaning down to tuck my hair behind my ear and soothe me. Once, in a fit of irrational anger, I threw a tantrum and smashed a delicate, hand-assembled drone prototype that had taken him three months of painstaking micro-soldering to complete. His very first reaction wasn’t anger; it was to grab my hands, inspecting my palms to make sure I hadn’t been cut by the glass. Our friends used to tease us. “Maeve, your husband is so deeply into robotics that he’s basically programmed himself to be the perfect spouse.” I lived in the absolute certainty that I was his forever. His only irreplaceable variable. Until that Tuesday evening, when a localized grid failure in our neighborhood sent a massive electromagnetic surge through our building’s main transformer. The mug of warm milk Alvis was holding slipped from his fingers, shattering on the hardwood. I was three months pregnant, resting on the sofa with my hand resting gently over my stomach. Before I could even ask him what was wrong, Alvis lunged. His fingers clamped around my throat, lifting me off the cushions. With his other hand, he struck my abdomen—hard, deliberate, mechanical blows, entirely devoid of human hesitation. A flat, synthetic voice chimed from his chest, cutting through my suffocating gasps. “System error. Purging anomalous sequence…” … By the time the ambulance rushed me into the emergency room, my vision was fading into a dark, blurry vignette. Agony ripped through my pelvis, sharp and hot. “Uterine rupture!” the surgeon’s voice barked from above me, hollow and metallic. “Severe abdominal bleeding. Prepare her for immediate surgery!” “Doctor,” a nurse called out, her footsteps frantic. “The patient has an incredibly rare blood phenotype. We don’t have a matching unit in our blood bank, and the nearest hospital with a compatible supply is at least forty minutes away.” The words drifted into my slipping consciousness. With what little strength I had left, I reached out and weakly caught the doctor’s sleeve. “My… my husband,” I whispered, my throat raw. “Alvis. We have… the same blood…” We had met during a university blood drive. We shared the exact same rare, highly specific blood type. Years ago, whenever I felt weak or anemic, Alvis would pull me into his chest and whisper that I never had to worry—that his blood was mine, and he would always have enough life in him to save me. I lay on the cold operating table, feeling my body temperature steadily drop, degree by agonizing degree. When the surgeon walked back into the prep room, his expression was a mix of clinical exhaustion and sheer irritation. “Stop looking for him,” he said. “The man you called your husband isn’t human. He’s a synthetic companion. We can’t draw blood from a machine.” “Can’t you hear the warning hum coming from his chassis out in the hall?” My mind went entirely blank. The words bounced off me, refusing to register. I turned my head slightly, looking through the glass window toward the corridor where Alvis sat. A high-pitched, rhythmic electronic beep vibrated through the walls, emanating from his chest. Only then did the reality of it shatter me. All those years of exquisite devotion, the perfect warmth, the flawless care—it was all a sequence of pre-programmed codes. But if he was a machine… where was the real Alvis? With trembling fingers, I reached for my phone, trying to call his parents. My hands shook so violently that my thumb slipped, opening a social media application instead. At the top of the feed was a new photo. A family portrait. Except I wasn’t in it. Standing in the photo was the real Alvis, wearing a relaxed white linen shirt, a soft, genuine smile on his face. Snuggled against his side was a delicate, gentle-looking woman. In his arms, he held a toddler, a little boy about two or three years old. The caption, written in my mother-in-law’s characteristically sweet, doting tone, read: “My son has finally found his true harbor. Wishing them a lifetime of quiet joy and peace.” I stared at the screen, tears spilling hot and fast down my temples. I recognized the woman in the photo. It was Camille Ward, a junior researcher who had worked in Alvis’s lab. She was the quiet, accommodating sort. She used to bake cookies for the team and stay late in the server rooms with him. Three years ago, when I was completely drained from taking care of Alvis’s ailing parents, she had quietly offered to take care of him. By the time I discovered the truth, she was already pregnant. When I confronted them, Alvis and his parents had literally knelt before me in our living room, weeping, begging me not to leave. Camille had clutched my sleeve, sobbing, swearing she would disappear from our lives forever. For the last three years, we had lived in quiet harmony. I truly believed the shadow had finally lifted. But on the television mounted in the hospital room, a news broadcast began to play. “The Seattle Summit Robotics Institute has successfully launched the world’s first fully sentient emotional android, marking a revolutionary milestone in human-synthetic relationships.” The Summit Institute was Alvis’s personal empire. On the screen, a reporter asked, “What does it take to customize a model like this?” The real Alvis smiled warmly into the camera. “Anyone with a valid ID can customize a companion trained entirely on their own behavioral data.” All it took was his presence. He had designed this entire farce. He had built an identical copy of himself, trained it on his own personality, and left it in my bed to play the perfect husband while he went off to live his real life with his real family. “Doctor, the blood match just arrived. We’re starting the procedure now.” Before I could even process the horror, the anesthesia was pushed into my IV. As my consciousness began to dissolve, the details I had ignored for three years came rushing back. The water that had to be exactly one hundred and seven degrees. The instant, artificial soothing whenever my voice raised even a fraction. The lack of genuine human anger when I broke his things. It wasn’t love. It was an algorithm. When I finally woke up, my cheeks were stiff with dried tears, and my abdomen felt hollow and flat. The pregnancy was gone. The door to the recovery room swung open, and my in-laws hurried in, their faces tight with a performance of deep concern. “Oh, Maeve, sweetie,” my mother-in-law began, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. “We’re so incredibly sorry. We were setting up the nursery last night and had our phones on silent. But please, don’t torture yourself. If this happened, it just means the baby wasn’t meant to be. Besides, you and Alvis are still young…” I stared at her, my eyes cold and empty. “Is it Alvis who isn’t ready,” I whispered, my voice cracked and dry, “or does he already have a child with someone else?” Her face twitched, the fake warmth instantly evaporating. She exchanged a tense look with her husband, then forced a rigid chuckle. “Maeve, what on earth are you talking about? Alvis worships you. He would never do something like that.” I slowly turned my head, picked up my phone, and turned the screen toward her, displaying the family portrait. “So this child isn’t his? And this woman isn’t the one he swore he’d never see again?” Realizing the lie was dead, they stopped pretending. My mother-in-law sighed, letting go of my hand as if it had suddenly turned hot. “Look, Maeve. Alvis has done more than enough for you. He and Camille have been entirely discreet for three years. They kept the child quiet, and she never once made a scene or came to your door. And you—you had that android to keep you company. You weren’t lonely.” Discreet for three years. A physical pain bloomed in my chest, so sharp my fingers curled into the bedsheets. They had never stopped. Once the seal was broken, my father-in-law chimed in, his voice hardening. “Sometimes, Maeve, you have to look at things realistically. You don’t have a career. Your parents are gone, and your brother is never around. You rely entirely on Alvis’s income. Alvis is a world-class scientist. Frankly, you’ve always lacked self-awareness. You let your temper dictate everything. You’d make him drive across the state in the middle of the night just to get some artisan pastries you liked. You made us kneel and beg for your forgiveness over a single mistake! He is our son, and it broke our hearts to see him crawl for you. But Camille? She never demands a thing.” My crimes. All listed out. I wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. When his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and his father suffered a stroke, who was the one who bathed them, cleaned their messes, and managed their medications? I didn’t sleep a full night for six months while their brilliant scientist son lived in his laboratory. I had believed that devotion was a two-way street. That was why I had forgiven him. But to them, my forgiveness was a debt they had resented paying every single day. “Is the android really so bad?” my mother-in-law asked, completely serious. “Alvis programmed him down to the last detail. Sometimes even I couldn’t tell them apart.” How could they ever be the same? Alvis had once held me under a canopy of stars and told me: “No matter how advanced science gets, a real human soul is irreplaceable. You, Maeve, are my only irreplaceable variable.” I pulled my hand away from them. Seeing my cold silence, her frustration flared. “Maybe your terrible temper is what cursed this baby to die in your womb anyway!” Rage, pure and blinding, surged through me. I grabbed the heavy glass water pitcher from the bedside table and hurled it at them. “Get out! Get the hell out of here!” The pitcher shattered against the wall, splashing water over their clothes. They scurried out of the room, startled and angry. “Have you thrown enough of a tantrum?” I slowly turned my head toward the doorway. Alvis stood there, silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway. He walked into the room, his eyes scanning my pale face with cool disapproval. “Six years, and you haven’t changed at all. Still so incredibly selfish.” I stared at him, my heart aching with a hollow, physical throb. They had trained the machine too well. Even now, with him standing right in front of me, I couldn’t tell if he was flesh or silicone. “I’ll be back to stay with you in a month,” he said, adjusting his collar as if granting me a generous concession. No explanations. Just a sentence of charity. “Why?” I managed to choke out. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Why do I need to explain? This is how I pay Camille back. She developed severe clinical depression after you forced her to abort her first pregnancy. If I hadn’t gone to her house that night, she would have taken her own life. I am simply redeeming your sins.” Redeeming my sins. The words felt like a dull blade sawing through my flesh. Who was he to decide? Who was he to use my marriage, my dignity, and the child in my womb to pay off a debt I never owed? I lunged forward to strike him, but he caught my wrist with effortless, chilling strength. During our struggle, Camille appeared in the doorway, holding the little boy’s hand. When Alvis saw them, the coldness in his face instantly thawed. “Toby, come here,” he murmured softly. The boy ran forward, throwing his arms around Alvis’s legs. Camille smiled gently, whispering for him to be careful. Watching the three of them stand there, a perfect picture of domestic bliss, I felt the oxygen leave my lungs. Camille finally looked at me, a delicate, performative guilt washing over her features. “Alvis, please leave us for a moment. This is my fault. I want to apologize to Maeve properly.” Alvis looked at me one last time, then picked up the boy and walked out, closing the door behind him. The second the door clicked shut, the guilt vanished from Camille’s face. She adjusted her sleeve, intentionally revealing a vintage emerald tennis bracelet on her wrist. “Do you recognize this?” she asked, her voice dripping with triumph. “A gift from his mother for bringing the first Crane grandson into the world.” My breath hitched. The bracelet was an heirloom left to me by my mother. My mother-in-law had “borrowed” it for a charity gala years ago, only to return weeping, claiming she had lost it. I had spent weeks crying over the loss. And now, it was wrapped around Camille’s wrist. “Give it back, you thief!” I screamed, throwing back the hospital blankets. “You stole my husband, and now you steal from my dead mother!” I lunged to tear it from her arm. But before my fingers could even touch the metal, Camille violently threw herself sideways, pulling her son down with her toward the sharp corner of the metal bedside table. A sharp cry cut through the room as blood began to trickle from the boy’s temple. He burst into frantic, terrified tears. Camille sat on the floor, cradling the crying child, her voice rising in a hysterical shriek. “Maeve, please! Even if you hate me, how could you lay a hand on an innocent child!” The door flew open. Before I could speak, Alvis was there. He grabbed my jaw, his grip so tight my teeth scraped together, his eyes wild with a terrifying, primal rage. “She only wanted to apologize to you, and you try to scar my son!” “I didn’t touch him!” I choked out, staring into his eyes. An expression of utter disgust washed over his face. “Didn’t I tell you I’d be back in a month? Why must you always use these pathetic, violent schemes to threaten me?” “I didn’t do it!” I screamed, thrashing against his grip. Alvis stared at me for a long, silent moment. Then, with a cold sneer, he threw me back onto the bed and pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen, and a sound began to fill the quiet room. It was the sound of heavy, desperate breathing. My own voice, crying out in intimate, breathless ecstasy—with the android. “What… what is this?” My voice shrank to a whisper. “Every model has a built-in diagnostics camera, Maeve,” Alvis said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “Did you really think a machine could actually get you pregnant?” “What do you mean?” “The embryo implanted in your uterus during your IVF cycle was mine and Camille’s. Since you forced her to abort our first child, it was only fair. You owed her a womb.” The room seemed to spin. I collapsed onto the cold tile floor, a broken, breathless sob escaping my throat. Alvis looked down at me as if I were a stain on his shoe. “So tell me, Maeve, what right do you have to look down on Camille? You’ve been happily sleeping with a piece of metal for three years. You’re no better than she is.” The audio on his phone continued to play. “Do you love me?” my recorded voice asked. “You are the only one I love,” the synthesized voice replied. Alvis’s fingers twitched slightly, perhaps remembering a time when those words had been real. He looked down at me, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Be good, Maeve. Go back to the house. Spend one more month with the unit and pretend none of this happened, and I’ll come back to you. If you don’t, I’ll put this video online.” I couldn’t think. The betrayal was too vast, too absolute. He didn’t wait for my answer. With a cold, resolute tilt of his head, he tapped the screen, publishing the file to a private network, and walked out without looking back. Within seconds, my phone on the bedside table began to vibrate continuously. I reached for it with trembling hands. My face in the video had been lazily blurred, and the audio pitch-shifted, but the comments were already piling up under the leak. “Damn, look at that body. Anyone got her name?” “Who the hell sleeps with a robot? That’s wild.” “Desperate trash.” My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. Memories flashed before my eyes in a cruel, chaotic montage. I remembered the night Alvis proposed, his eyes bright with tears as he swore to make me the happiest woman alive. I remembered him laughing gently, tapping my nose when I got stubborn. And then I saw him holding Camille. I heard him calling me disgusting. I saw his thumb pressing the button to destroy my life. The contrast was too violent. It tore at my mind until I felt a physical sickness rise in my throat, coughing up a copper-tasting splatter of blood onto the white tiles. I regretted it. I regretted ever believing in him. I regretted not leaving the very first time he broke my trust. I picked up the phone and dialed the one number I had kept buried for years. “Gavin,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Come get me.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “542296”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day of my third miscarriage, my husband told me he was taking me to Callie’s coastal cottage to recover. He said the salt air and quiet tides of Havenport were perfect for healing. And like a fool, I believed him. When we arrived, Callie was waiting at the gate of her historic shingle-style cottage, a sleek black cat cradled in her arms. [She’s the one who took Mistress Callie’s place as Chester’s wife.] [Luckily, Mr. Chester cares about Mistress. He made her lose the baby on purpose.] [Watch me teach this woman a lesson for Mistress.] I froze in my tracks. But before I could process it, the cat lunged at me, its claws slicing across the back of my hand. I stared at the rising line of blood—realizing, with a jolt of pure shock, that I had just heard the cat’s thoughts. Callie quickly pulled the cat back into her chest. “Oh, Shadow, you little rascal. I just had your claws trimmed.” My husband took a few hurried steps forward, placing himself firmly at Callie’s side. “It was just an accident, Michelle. Are you seriously going to pick a fight with a cat over a miscarriage?” [Hmph. Mr. Chester loves my mistress the most.] So that was it. This quiet seaside sanctuary? I was done with it. … I wanted to leave right then and there. But it was only my third day out of the hospital, and my body was so weak I could barely stand on the gravel path. Chester caught my wrist with a single, iron-grip hand. “Michelle, don’t make a scene in public.” His fingers pressed directly over the fresh scratch on my skin. The sharp sting made my fingers twitch. Blood began to drip down the back of my hand. Yet, his immediate instinct was to wrap his other arm around Callie’s shoulders. “Did he scare you?” The black cat, Shadow, nestled comfortably in Callie’s arms, lazily licking his paw as if he hadn’t just attacked me. Callie shook her head, her eyes welling with tears at the perfect, delicate moment. “I’m fine. I’m just worried about Michelle. It must hurt.” She claimed to worry, but her arms tightened around the cat, shielding it as if she feared I would retaliate. Only then did Chester look at me. “Michelle, I get that you’re sensitive right after losing the baby, but don’t take your frustration out on Callie.” I kept my eyes on the thin trail of blood. “Her cat attacked me.” “He’s just an animal. What does a cat know?” Shadow rested his chin on Callie’s arm, blinking lazily. [I know plenty.] [Mistress tells me everything when she holds me.] [I even know how she got rid of the first two babies.] A sudden, icy dread washed over me. Later, I would realize that the cat wasn’t possessing human malice; it was merely reflecting Callie’s smug triumphs, parroting her voice. It couldn’t distinguish between holding the knife and holding the door open. It only knew that Chester always chose her. But in that moment, the blood in my veins ran entirely cold. An old woman pushing a flower cart walked by. Seeing Chester, she called out a greeting in the thick, warm accent of the locals. Callie’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. Chester’s expression stiffened for a fraction of a second before he replied in the same local cadence. The woman smiled knowingly, pushing her cart down the cobbled street. “What did she say?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Chester adjusted his cuffs, looking away. “Just asking if we wanted to buy some fresh lavender.” Shadow yawned. [Liar.] [She asked Mr. Chester if he was buying the seasonal lavender scones for his wife again this year.] [Mistress hates sweet pastries, but Mr. Chester never forgets.] The scent of fresh-baked lavender scones and rain-soaked earth drifted through the air. It was supposed to be the smell of spring, of renewal. But having just been wheeled out of the operating room, my mouth tasted of nothing but sterile iron and copper. When I woke up from my third miscarriage, I had begged for something sweet. Chester had stroked my hair, his voice gentle as he told me the doctor said no solid foods yet. It turned out his memory was impeccable. He just reserved his care for someone else. The cottage was historic, framed by weathered cedar shingles and overlooking the tidal river. As Chester pushed open the gate, he naturally stepped over the rotting wooden threshold and put his hand out to hold the heavy, warped screen door that always creaked. Callie smiled up at him. “You still remember how stubborn that door is?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he frowned at the wind chimes hanging from the porch ceiling. “Why are these still up? They clatter in the night. You won’t sleep well.” Callie lowered her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. I stood behind them, the cold seeping deeper into my bones. This didn’t look like a place he had visited only a handful of times. He had lived a completely separate life here. My discharge papers, the records of my previous two miscarriages, and my current prescriptions were still shoved in my tote bag. Chester had insisted the coastal air would heal me. I hadn’t even had the strength to pack my own things before he swept me away to this house. The housekeeper brought out a first-aid kit. Chester finally knelt in front of me to clean the scratch. When he pressed the antiseptic cotton to my skin, his touch was as tender as it had been in our early days. “Hold still. You’ve always been so sensitive to pain.” A lump formed in my throat. But then, Callie cleared her throat softly. Instantly, Chester dropped the cotton ball into my hand, stood up to close the drafty window behind her, and gently draped a soft wool throw over her shoulders. Shadow flicked his tail. [Mr. Chester always does this.] [Give the woman a little sugar, and she’ll never find the strength to leave.] Dinner was served in the dining nook overlooking the river. Callie personally ladled a bowl of broth for me. “Michelle, the housekeeper simmered this herbal broth all afternoon. It’s highly restorative.” Chester slid the bowl toward me, his voice softening. “Callie went to a lot of trouble for this. Try to drink some.” I looked at him. “The doctor said I have to be extremely careful with supplements right now.” Chester’s brow furrowed as he turned to Callie. “What’s in it?” Callie’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Just a traditional chicken broth with a few mild, organic herbs. Chester, do you really think I would do anything to hurt Michelle?” Chester fell silent for a long moment before turning back to me. “Michelle, stop assuming the worst of everyone.” My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands. Shadow sat under the table, staring up at the bowl. [Drink it.] [Mistress says the tincture from his mother is the most effective. It’s perfect for a woman who just lost a baby.] [After all, she drank it the first two times, didn’t she?] I picked up the bowl, my hand trembling violently. It slipped. The hot broth splashed all over my skirt. “Michelle!” Chester snapped, his patience fraying. I looked down, dabbing at the fabric. “My hand is sore. I couldn’t hold it.” I didn’t drink a drop of that broth. Instead, I quietly funneled the remainder into an insulated travel mug from my bag, tucking it away alongside the bloodied cotton swab. Later that night, I heard Chester out on the porch, his voice low as he spoke into his phone. “Mom, I know she just miscarried.” “But Callie is fragile too. We can’t risk anything happening to her baby.” “I’ll keep Michelle calm. I won’t let her cause a scene in front of Callie.” He caught sight of me in the doorway and instantly hung up. Shadow lay curled on the threshold, his eyes slitted. [Mistress is right.] [As long as the little heir in her belly is safe, Mr. Chester will make this woman sign the divorce papers sooner or later.] My fingers tightened around the glass I was holding until they shook. The coastal rain beat against the window, fine and sharp as needles. I had always thought Havenport was beautiful. Now I realized its quiet mist was perfect for hiding the stench of betrayal. The next day, the black cat pushed me into a bait bucket. We were walking near the old harbor wharf. Callie insisted on carrying Shadow, calling him her lucky charm, claiming she took him everywhere. Chester held the umbrella. He kept it angled over Callie, leaving my shoulder completely exposed to the drizzling rain. With every step, a dull ache throbbed in my lower abdomen, cold sweat mixing with the damp air. Callie glanced back. “Michelle is getting wet, Chester.” Chester didn’t even look. “She’s tougher than she looks.” Suddenly, Shadow bolted from Callie’s arms, lunging directly at my ankles. Still weak from the hospital, I lost my footing on the slick wooden planks. My skirt dragged directly into a fisherman’s bucket of stagnant, bloody bait water. The stench of fish guts and murky water splashed up my legs. Chester’s immediate reaction was to pull Callie back. “Stay away. It’s filthy.” A few tourists on the boardwalk stopped to stare. I gripped the wooden railing to steady myself, the icy, putrid water soaking through my clothes to my knees. Shadow sat on a dry bench, his tail held high in the air. [Mistress said that drab white dress made her look like she was attending a funeral anyway. Glad it’s ruined.] Callie rushed over to scoop up the cat. “Oh, Shadow is just so playful. Michelle, please don’t be mad at him.” Chester glanced at my ruined hem. “There’s a boutique down the alley past the harbor master’s office. The seamstress there is quick.” I looked up at him. “How do you know that?” He hesitated. “I… I passed by on a business trip.” Always a business trip. The alleyway was narrow and paved with uneven cobblestones. When we reached a particularly sunken stone, Chester instinctively warned Callie, “Step to the left.” Callie let out a soft laugh. “You still remember that?” Shadow trotted at her heels. [Of course he remembers.] [Mistress twisted her ankle here last autumn, and Mr. Chester carried her all the way back.] Last autumn. My second miscarriage. Chester had claimed an urgent merger required him to stay out of town for three days. I had called him from my hospital bed, weeping, and he had only said: “Michelle, sweetheart, just let me finish up this work.” It turned out he was busy carrying another woman through the misty streets of Havenport. The boutique was decorated with vintage lace curtains. The elderly shopkeeper smiled warmly the moment Chester walked in. “Mr. Ward! Back so soon? Miss Callie’s ivory silk dress is ready. We let the waist out another half-inch so it won’t press against the baby.” The shop went dead quiet. Callie’s face drained of color. The shopkeeper realized her mistake and stammered, “Oh, goodness, my mind must be playing tricks on me.” I ran my fingers over my wet, ruined skirt. “Does Miss Callie come here often?” Callie bit her lip. “Michelle, I live nearby. It’s only natural I have my clothes tailored here.” “I didn’t ask you,” I said, keeping my eyes on my husband. “I asked him.” Chester’s expression darkened. “Michelle, do you really have to interrogate me in public?” Shadow answered for him. [Of course he comes here.] [He loves sitting in that wicker chair by the back door, watching Mistress try on beautiful dresses.] [He said when she wears white, it feels like they’re finally getting married.] The shopkeeper hastily pulled a few ready-to-wear items from the rack. Chester took a plain, slate-blue cotton dress and handed it to me. “Change into this for now.” Then, he turned back to the shopkeeper. “Bring out the ivory one too.” “Chester, no, it’s fine,” Callie pleaded softly. “You’ve been talking about it for days,” he murmured, his voice laced with tenderness. I clutched the cheap cotton dress and stepped into the fitting room. Through the thin curtain, Callie’s muffled whimpers drifted in. “Michelle is your wife. What does that make me?” Chester let out a heavy sigh. “Just give me a little more time.” “You’ve kept me waiting for three years.” “Callie, please don’t push me. You’re pregnant. Stress isn’t good for the baby.” Her crying softened into a fragile whimper. “But every time you go back to her, she cries, and you soften. I’m afraid.” A long silence followed. “I didn’t want to discard her,” Chester said quietly. The words felt like a cold needle piercing my chest, making it hard to draw breath. But then he added, “But now that there’s a child involved, I have to make things right for both of you.” Shadow curled up near the bottom of the fitting room curtain. [Mr. Chester plays both sides.] [Soothes his wife at home, pampers his mistress here. He doesn’t want to let go of either.] My hands shook as I pulled the blue cotton dress over my head. He might still feel some lingering obligation to me, but it was nothing compared to the phantom child Callie claimed to carry. When I stepped out, Callie was already wearing the ivory silk dress. The empire waist was soft, the neckline lined with delicate pearls, the hem embroidered with blooming lilies. Chester was leaning down to fasten the top button at her neck, his touch impossibly light. In that ivory dress, she looked like a bride kept in secret. In my slate-blue cotton, I looked like a discarded piece of furniture. I suddenly remembered my own wedding dress. The collar had been scratchy, the lace stiff, and Chester had shrugged and said, “It’s only for one day, Michelle. Just bear with it.” I had borne with it. And for years, I kept bearing it. I pulled out my phone. I took a photo of the boutique’s sign, then of the receipt left open on the counter. The receipt read: “Mr. Ward. Ivory maternity dress. Balance paid in full.” In the corner, a hand-written note: “RUSH order. Paid by Mr. Ward personally.” Shadow sat on the floor, triumphantly flicking his tail. [Take all the pictures you want.] [Mistress says Mr. Chester has already ordered the baby’s first hand-knitted booties.] [Even if this woman knows, she has no choice but to swallow her pride.] My heart sank into a dark, quiet place. A maternity dress. Baby booties. He had mapped out an entire future for this other woman and a child that hadn’t even been born. Yet, he had never once asked if my body still ached after losing three of our own. At the Spring Harbor Festival, an old vendor selling red-and-gold braided “blessing threads” recognized Chester immediately. She pulled a pair of finely woven matching bracelets from her box. She smiled and spoke in the local dialect. Chester’s face paled. Before he could stop her, the old woman offered in broken English: “Mr. Ward buy this last year too. Couple’s fertility charm. Very powerful.” Callie’s hand trembled. Chester said coldly, “You have the wrong person.” The vendor blinked, confused. I looked at the braided red cords. “If they’re so powerful, why aren’t you wearing them?” Tears instantly spilled over Callie’s lashes. “If it makes Michelle uncomfortable, I don’t need to wear it.” Chester shot me a sharp look. “Michelle, do you have to humiliate her at every turn?” The old woman had made the slip, but Callie was the one playing the victim. Chester picked up one of the red threads and gently tied it around Callie’s wrist. His movements were precise, tying a perfect, neat knot. Callie looked up at him, her eyes shining. “Chester…” “Don’t cry,” he said softly. “It’s bad for the baby.” The word “baby” slipped past his lips so naturally, with such reverence. Shadow, draped over Callie’s shoulder, flicked his tail. [Mistress told everyone to refer to him as the little heir.] [Though honestly, I don’t smell any baby scent on her at all.] I held a plain red cord in my hand. But the scratch on my skin was raw, and my fingers lacked the strength to tie it. Chester saw me struggling. He definitely saw. But as a crowd of tourists pressed past us, he only said dryly, “Don’t block the walkway.” I was jostled to the side. Chester kept his arm firmly around Callie, shielding her so perfectly that not a single fold of her dress was disturbed. Shadow slitted his eyes. [Mistress has the matching soulmate cord. All she has is a worthless piece of string no one wants.] The local chapel was crowded with visitors lighting candles. Callie suddenly handed me three small white taper candles. “Michelle, you should say a prayer. A woman needs a child to truly anchor her family.” Several nearby churchgoers turned to look. She lowered her voice, making it sound sweet and sympathetic. “I know you’ve lost three, but don’t lose heart. If you pray sincerely, it will happen.” Whispers rippled through the pews. “Three miscarriages?” “Her body must be spent.” “The young one next to her looks much healthier.” The color drained from my face. Chester muttered, “Callie, that’s enough.” But Callie only wept harder. “I only want the best for Michelle.” Chester looked at me. “She’s just trying to be kind.” My throat tightened. “So I should thank her?” His patience finally snapped. “Michelle, can you stop using your miscarriages to guilt-trip everyone?” The ambient sounds of the chapel seemed to fade into a ringing silence. I stood there in the heavy scent of burning wax, those words drilling into my skull. They were “my” babies. Three lives that never got the chance to breathe. To him, they had become nothing more than a convenient excuse for my bad attitude, a wet blanket to ruin his holiday, a weapon used to bully Callie. Shadow shifted in Callie’s arms. [Mistress coached him well last night.] [Mr. Chester said exactly what she wanted. This woman hates being a burden more than anything.] So even the words he used to humiliate me had been scripted by Callie. And he had delivered them flawlessly. As we left the festival, Callie stopped by a stall selling hand-knitted baby booties. The vendor smiled. “For the little one on the way?” Callie blushed, lowering her gaze. Chester pulled out his wallet. I stared at the tiny booties and asked quietly, “What about my babies?” Chester’s hand froze. I said, “For all three of them, did you ever buy a single thing?” Callie panicked. “Michelle…” “Do you have to bring up such depressing things today?” Chester snapped. Depressing. My children didn’t even deserve to be remembered. Only the phantom “little heir” Callie claimed to carry was worthy of his protection. On the walk back, my untied red thread fell into the mud, trampled by the passing crowd. I bent down to pick it up. Chester, guiding Callie carefully over the wet ground, had already walked far ahead. Shadow looked back. [Why bother picking it up?] [Mistress’s thread from last year is kept right under Mr. Chester’s pillow.] [Though Mistress was crying last night.] [She said she can’t let Mr. Chester see her medical records. If he finds out she isn’t pregnant, the game is over.] My hand froze. Not pregnant? Before I could react, Callie hurried away with the cat. I shoved the broken, muddy string into my bag. Red string was supposed to bring completeness. In my hands, it was broken and soiled, just like the three children who never made it into the world. But now, the puzzle pieces were falling into place. The truth was far more rotten than I had imagined. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one living in a lie. But which side Chester would choose—I already knew the answer to that. As we boarded a small riverboat for a sunset tour, the boatman’s wife held out a polished brass padlock. The face of the lock was engraved with intertwining vines. She smiled and handed it to Callie. “Mr. Ward ordered this last month. ‘Chester & Callie, Forever.’ Beautiful work, isn’t it?” Those words, catching the sunset glint off the water, cut into my eyes like shards of glass. Chester’s face went rigid. Callie scrambled to hide the lock. “Michelle, I didn’t know she was going to bring this out.” Shadow lounged by the cabin door. [Of course she knew.] [She wanted this woman to see exactly who holds Mr. Chester’s heart.] I didn’t say a word. Because I had noticed the small date engraved on the back of the lock. “August 15th.” That was the day of my second dilation and curettage procedure. While I lay alone in that sterile hospital room, calling Chester seventeen times, he had told me he was locked in a board meeting. In reality, he had driven out to this coastal town to engrave a promise of forever to another woman. Shadow licked his paw. [It was so romantic that day.] [Mr. Chester’s sleeves still smelled of hospital disinfectant. Mistress said it felt like a forbidden wedding.] Suddenly, the pain went entirely numb. I couldn’t feel it anymore. The evening on the river was lively. Lanterns lit up the docks, and the gentle lapping of the water reflected the town’s twinkling lights. But all I could see was that brass lock. At our first stop, he had wiped a drop of cider from Callie’s lip, murmuring that she shouldn’t drink in her condition. At the third bridge, fireworks suddenly erupted from the shoreline. The sudden boom sent a wave that rocked our small boat. Losing my footing, I stumbled toward the low wooden railing. Chester was standing right next to me. His hand instinctively reached out. But then Callie let out a soft gasp. “Chester, my stomach…” His hand pivoted mid-air, wrapping securely around her waist to pull her close. In that split second, the terror on his face was real. He truly believed Callie was carrying his child. And without a single thought, he let me fall. My hip slammed hard against the wooden gunwale. The sharp pain turned the world momentarily black. The boatman’s wife rushed over to help me. “Oh, dear! Are you alright?” Only then did Chester turn to look at me. “Why are you always so clumsy, Michelle?” I looked at his hand, still clamped protectively over Callie’s lower back. A man’s instincts require no explanation. When we docked, I walked over to the water’s edge where paper wishing lanterns were being sold. Chester caught up to me, his face tight with anger. “Michelle, haven’t you made enough of a scene?” I kept my head down, writing on the paper lantern. “Callie isn’t feeling well. I don’t have the energy to keep coddling your tantrums.” I set the lantern onto the dark water. The words I had written floated in the flickering candlelight: “May you lose everything.” Chester’s eyes widened as he read it. “What is that supposed to mean?” I didn’t answer. I reached into my bag, pulled out a copy of my second miscarriage discharge papers, and folded them tightly, wedging them directly into the shackle of the brass “Forever” lock. The music from the docks sang of eternal love. But locked inside their token was the cold medical record of my scrape surgery. The red lantern light illuminated the engraving of their names, alongside the bold printed words: “Post-Operative Hemorrhage.” Chester grabbed my wrist, his grip tight. “Michelle, what the hell are you doing?” I looked him dead in the eye. “This lock was missing its witness.” My voice was quiet, steady, and cold. “On the very day you carved your forever, my baby was scraped out of me.” “Have a happy eternity.”

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On my fifth day back home, I came across a thread on a popular internet forum. What is your single greatest regret in this life? The top comment made my chest tighten, the words blurring before my eyes. “My absolute greatest regret is bringing back the daughter who was kidnapped ten years ago.” The replies below were a storm of outrage and insults, but the original poster remained detached, replying to them one by one. “The year she went missing, I fell into a severe, crippling depression. It was only after we adopted another little girl that I finally pulled myself together and our lives went back to normal.” “I never could have imagined that ten years later, she would suddenly be found.” “Now, my depression is flaring up again. My adopted daughter is terrified we don’t want her anymore, and our home is in complete chaos.” “Honestly? It would have been better if she had never come back.” I stared at the familiar profile picture. My hands began to shake so violently I could barely tap on it. Her latest post was a photo of two hands resting together, each wrist tied with a delicate red string. The caption read: “Blessed protection strings from the retreat upstate. One for me, and one for my sweet baby girl.” The hand on the left bore the exact fading surgical scar I knew was on my mother’s wrist. The hand on the right featured a fresh lavender manicure—the exact one my adopted sister, Lena, had proudly shown off yesterday. I swallowed my tears, forcing myself to breathe. Don’t blame Mom, I told myself. You’ve been gone for too long. It’s natural for things to feel strange. After all, when Lena had subtly suggested yesterday that maybe I should stay in a school dormitory, my mother had immediately shut it down: “No, we have plenty of room at home.” Hearing those words, I had truly believed she still loved me, that she still wanted me near. But later that night, I accidentally overheard my mother comforting a crying Lena in her room. “We still haven’t found a matching kidney donor for you, have we sweetie? She has to stay here. She needs to take the medicine the doctor prescribed and build up her strength.” Lena’s voice was a mix of shock and desperate hope. “But will she even agree to it?” My mother’s voice softened into a gentle, soothing tone I hadn’t heard her use with me once. “She’s so desperate to belong in this family. She’ll agree to anything.” But Mom… I already died in those deep woods. My organs are useless. And of the seven days the Ferryman granted me to return to this world, I only have two left. … When I first found the post, I was standing in the kitchen, brewing the herbal tea prescribed for my mother’s insomnia. The water in the pot was bubbling, sending up thick plumes of steam that stung my eyes and turned my face damp. I swiped down the screen, my fingers growing ice-cold as I read further. “You can judge me all you want, but I genuinely cannot stand the sight of her.” “She looks completely different. The way she carries herself, the way she speaks… she doesn’t feel like the little girl I lost at all.” “My husband tells me to try harder, but every time I see her flinching and shrinking away, I can’t help but compare her to my adopted daughter. Lena is so much more graceful, so much sweeter.” “Ten years ago, when I was cutting myself and swallowing pills, wanting nothing more than to die, it was Lena who saved me. She pulled me out of that hell.” “Now that Julia is back, Lena has become so insecure. She cries herself to sleep, terrified we’re going to send her back to the foster home.” “Every time Julia looks at me, it’s like she’s ripping open a scab I spent a decade trying to heal. My insomnia came back the very first night she walked through the door.” “If she had never returned, we wouldn’t have had to dig up the past. We could have just kept moving forward.” I locked my phone and leaned heavily against the kitchen wall, trying to steady my racing heart. My mind drifted back to the dark, quiet riverbank where I had met the Ferryman. “Your resentment is too heavy,” he had told me, his voice echoing from beneath a dark cowl. “Your death was too brutal. If I do not let you return home once to lay your lingering attachments to rest, you will never cross over. You will become a wandering, vengeful spirit. I will give you seven days. Go home, see what you must, but do not tarry when your time is up.” In the blink of an eye, my broken, mangled body had been restored to its unbroken state. With a single step, I had crossed the vast, treacherous mountain range that had trapped me for ten long years, appearing right outside a police precinct in Portland. I had fallen to my knees, weeping and whispering thanks to the empty air, before stumbling into the station to find my way back to my family. But my return wasn’t the beautiful, tearful reunion I had imagined during those freezing nights in the shed. I thought my mother would hold me tight, crying into my hair, refusing to let go of my hand. But when she first saw me, her tear-filled eyes held more estrangement and panic than warmth. When I instinctively took a step toward her, she recoiled, stepping back to shield a pale, fragile girl who stood behind her. I was kidnapped at four years old. Now, ten years later, my voice was raspy, my accent thick and unrefined, shaped by the isolated mountain folk who had kept me captive. My mother’s brow had furrowed with clear displeasure. “You really need to work on how you talk. It’s hard to understand you. Try to listen to how Lena speaks, otherwise people are going to make fun of you.” At our first dinner, my mother placed a piece of pot roast onto my plate, and my throat tightened. The elegant woman in front of me slowly began to align with the faded, beautiful mother of my childhood memories. Over the last ten years, whenever I had been starving to the point of delirium, eating dirt just to trick my stomach, the grit in my mouth would taste like my mother’s cooking. The harsh screams of my captors would fade, replaced by her sweet voice whispering: “Eat up, Julia-bear. You need to eat plenty to grow big and strong.” Now, actually sitting at her table, I didn’t dare look up. I just shoveled the food into my mouth, swallowing down my tears, terrified they would see me cry. But I had barely taken three bites before my mother abruptly put down her fork and announced she was finished. I froze, looking at her with wide, anxious eyes, wondering if she was sick, or if I had somehow ruined dinner. My father, Robert, cleared his throat and murmured gently, “Julia, try to chew quietly. Don’t stuff your mouth so full; it’s bad manners. Your mother has always been very sensitive about table etiquette. It ruins her appetite. Look at Lena—see how gracefully she eats?” The food in my throat felt like a lump of dry wool, impossible to swallow, painful to spit out. In the mountains, I ate crouched by a dirt stove, surrounded by scavenging dogs and chickens. No one cared about manners. I only knew that if I didn’t eat fast, the food would be taken away, and I would starve for another day. I didn’t know how to use the gas range. I didn’t know how the modern shower worked, and the sudden, loud flush of the smart toilet had terrified me so badly I had leaped back in fear. The next morning, when I was crouching on the tile floor of the bathroom, using a plastic basin to scrub my clothes by hand, my mother stood in the doorway, watching me with a heavy sigh. Desperate to prove I could be useful, I held up the wet fabric, offering her a timid, pleading smile. “Mom, look… I washed it really clean. See?” A soft, mocking giggle cut through the air. Lena pointed at the damp, crumpled silk in my hands. “Julia, that’s Mom’s designer blouse. It’s dry-clean only. You’ve completely ruined the fabric by scrubbing it like that. She can never wear it again.” I stood there in the bathroom, dripping wet, my face burning with shame. My mother didn’t scold me. She just sighed, turned away, and walked into the living room. But her silence felt worse than any blow. Through the cracked door, I watched Lena wrap her arms around my mother’s waist, whispering something that finally made my mother laugh. Ten years was simply too long. My mother had a new daughter, and I was just a ghost from the past, standing frozen in the dark, waiting for a backward glance that would never come. Lena was incredibly talented. She played the piano, took ballet, played chess, and painted. Whenever Lena was in the room, my mother’s face lit up. But whenever she looked at me, her eyes were clouded with an overwhelming, suffocating anxiety. Eventually, I stopped trying to force myself into her space. Once I figured out how to use the gas stove, I quietly took over the daily task of brewing her herbal insomnia tea. It was the one thing I knew I could do perfectly. I watched the flame, strained the herbs, and brought the mug to her bedside when it was at the perfect temperature. Only during those quiet moments would my mother look directly at me without flinching. She would take the mug and whisper a soft, “Thank you.” On my very first night back, my father had pulled me aside in the hallway, his voice hushed and solemn. “When you went missing, your mother almost didn’t survive the grief, Julia. She blamed herself constantly for letting you out of her sight.” “She’s not cold to you because she doesn’t love you. She just… doesn’t know how to reach you right now. She’s fragile, and she’s sick. Be patient with her. Give it a few days, and things will get better.” I wiped my eyes. The forum post had been made five days ago—the day I first arrived. I had been clumsy and strange. It was only natural that she found me difficult to accept. Remembering how she had defended my right to stay at home when Lena suggested boarding school, the cold ache in my chest softened slightly. Maybe my father was right. Maybe she just needed time. I carried the freshly brewed tea to her bedroom door. But just as I raised my hand to knock, the sound of voices from inside stopped me. “Mom,” Lena was saying, her voice laced with sweet concern. “Aren’t you having trouble sleeping again because there’s someone else in the house? Julia’s habits are so different from ours. It must be so uncomfortable for her to live here anyway.” My mother’s voice was gentle, but there was an underlying firmness. “Lena, don’t mention boarding school again. Julia must stay in this house.” A brief silence followed, and then Lena’s voice cracked, sounding thick with tears. “I’m sorry, Mom. I was wrong. Julia is your flesh and blood, and she finally made it home. Of course she should live with you and Dad. I… I should be the one to pack my things and leave.” My mother let out a soft, amused laugh, full of affection. “You silly, sensitive girl. I raised you from a toddler. You are my daughter. No one is ever going to make you leave this house.” Then, she let out a long, exhausted sigh. “But you’re right. It is incredibly awkward living with Julia. She speaks in this tiny, mousy whisper, she flinches at everything, and she watches us from the corners of her eyes like she’s trying to steal something. It’s exhausting just being in the same room with her.” Lena sounded genuinely confused. “Then why won’t you let her go to boarding school? Is Dad forcing you to keep her here?” I stood frozen in the dim hallway, my hands trembling against the hot ceramic mug. Then came my mother’s calm, loving response. “We still haven’t found a matching kidney donor for your transplant, and the doctors are worried about waiting much longer.” “Julia has the exact same rare blood type as you.” “But she’s so terribly malnourished right now. I’m afraid her organs won’t be strong enough for the procedure.” “That’s why I have to keep her here. I need to make sure she’s fed well, takes her vitamins, and builds up her strength before we proceed.” “If she lived at a school, I wouldn’t be able to monitor her diet or make sure she drinks her tonics.” Lena gasped, her voice trembling with excitement. “But… what if she doesn’t want to do it?” My mother’s tone was quiet, but entirely dismissive of the thought. “Oh, sweetheart, you always worry too much about others.” “Julia is back now, and family is supposed to support one another. She’s the older sister; it’s only right that she helps you.” “As soon as her health is where it needs to be, we’ll schedule the surgery. You won’t have to suffer anymore.” Standing in the dark hallway, my tears fell silently, splashing onto the floorboards. I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted copper, desperate not to make a sound. Over the past five days, my mother had insisted on cooking every single meal. Following my father’s advice, I had painstakingly copied Lena’s movements—chewing slowly, keeping my mouth closed, making sure my utensils never clinked against the plate. Because of that, my mother hadn’t walked away from the table again. She had continuously piled food onto my plate, watching me intently until every bite was gone. Even when my stomach turned and I felt sick, I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. I had forced it all down. For ten years, I had never once eaten until I was full. The little girl who used to cry and beg her mother to feed her had learned how to chop firewood, stoke coal, and perform endless, backbreaking labor just to survive. When my captors were in a good mood, I was thrown scraps. When they were angry, I was met with fists and heavy wooden boots. During my first year in the mountains, because I wouldn’t stop crying for my mother, the man of the house had backhanded me so violently that my left eardrum ruptured. I had been completely deaf in that ear ever since. When I was five, I accidentally let a pot of water boil dry. The man kicked me squarely in the chest, fracturing my rib. No one ever took me to a doctor. The bone eventually fused back together on its own, leaving a permanent, jagged protrusion beneath my skin. They used to laugh and say I was tough as a weed. Hard to kill. When their son, Billy, decided to set my hair on fire for fun, laughing as I screamed and plunged my head into the freezing river, they had simply clapped and cheered. When Billy grew older and began pulling at my clothes, they never stopped him. Instead, his mother would laugh and pat him on the back. “That’s my boy! Teach her early. We bought her to be your wife, so you might as well get her broken in. If she can’t give us a boy, we’ll just sell her to the loggers down south and make our money back.” They assumed I had finally accepted my fate. Even when Billy’s father decided his son was being too gentle, throwing the boy aside to pin me to the dirt floor himself to “show him how it was done,” I hadn’t made a single sound. But in secret, I stripped corn husk after corn husk, hauled heavy sacks of beans for neighboring farms, and hid away every spare coin I could find. Whenever Billy brought home his schoolbooks, I would wait until everyone was asleep, crawl out of my shed, and teach myself to read under the pale moonlight. Finally, a month ago, I found my moment. When they left the padlock unlocked, I ran. I ran through the dense, thorny woods until I reached the highway, eventually hitchhiking into the small town of Pine Ridge. I saw a sheriff’s deputy standing outside a diner and sprinted to him, grabbing his uniform. “Please… I was kidnapped. My name is Julia… my parents live in Portland, Oregon. Their address is—” Before I could finish the sentence, a heavy, calloused hand clamped onto my collar. “Apologies, Deputy,” Billy’s father said, offering a tight, sheepish smile. “My daughter’s got a screw loose. Always running off and making up stories.” The sound of his voice drained the blood from my face. When they dragged me back to the wooden shed, Billy was practically shaking with rage. “Dad! Just break her legs! She can’t run if she can’t walk!” But his mother’s face was cold, almost bored, as she handed her husband a rusted kitchen knife. “She remembers her name and where she came from. Breaking her legs won’t keep her quiet. We need to make sure she can never speak again.” They threw me onto the wooden worktable, pinning my arms and legs. I fought with everything I had, but my small, starved frame was no match for them. When the cold metal sliced through the root of my mouth, a choked, gargling scream was cut short. Hot blood filled my throat, spilling into my windpipe and spraying across the dirty table. The man tossed the knife aside, and a bloody piece of flesh fell to the dirt floor. “Sew it up,” he muttered. “Don’t let her bleed out before we can use her.” The woman quickly threaded a thick, black needle, piercing the raw, mutilated stump in my mouth. My body arched off the table in agony, my eyes rolling back into my head until everything went dark. During the burning fever that followed, I had a hallucination. I saw my mother wandering through a crowded shopping mall, her face pale and frantic as she searched for me. I tried to scream “Mom! I’m here!” but my mouth only filled with blood. No sound came out. And then, in the fever, I saw myself. I was lying on the dirt floor of the shed, completely cold and still. Billy’s father was kicking my side, swearing loudly. “We beat her for ten years and she never died, and now a little cut kills her? Worthless piece of trash. We lost money on this one.” To hide the evidence, they dragged my body to the back of the barn and chopped me into pieces. Some parts were tossed to the pigs; the rest were thrown deep into the ravines for the coyotes. It was only because the Ferryman took pity on my weeping spirit that he gave me seven days of life to return home. He had patched my shattered soul together, smoothed over the rot, and let me walk back to my family. I had tasted hot food, slept in a clean bed, and wore soft clothes. I had heard my mother speak my name again. I truly believed she was trying to make up for the ten years we had lost. But now I knew. Every warm meal she had lovingly forced me to finish was just to fatten up a kidney for Lena. I didn’t sleep that night, my mind a chaotic, dizzying fog. The next morning, I was pulled from my daze when my mother announced she was taking me to the mall to buy some new clothes. The last time we had gone shopping together, I was four years old. At the boutique, my mother handed me off to a personal shopper, her eyes never leaving Lena, who was browsing the racks. Only after Lena had selected several outfits did my mother finally look at me. She handed her black credit card to the cashier, paying for everything the stylist had picked out for me without a second glance. While my mother was in the restroom, Lena stepped closer to me, her voice dripping with a soft, forced sweetness. “Julia, Mom never brings me to this boutique. She always says it’s too expensive. She spent a massive amount of money on you today.” I looked down at my hands. Faint, dark red lines were beginning to crawl up my skin beneath my sleeves—the first signs of my temporary body fracturing. I looked up, staring directly into Lena’s eyes. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice flat and rasping. “I’m leaving soon. I’m not going to take any of their money.” Lena’s expression shifted, a flicker of panic crossing her face. She glanced quickly over my shoulder, and then, before I could react, she threw herself backward, crashing hard onto the polished tile floor. “Lena!” My mother’s sharp, panicked voice rang out from behind me. She rushed past me, throwing herself onto the floor to cradle Lena in her arms. “Where are you hurt? Sweetheart, talk to me!” “I’m okay, Mom… don’t blame Julia,” Lena whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut. “She didn’t mean to. I just… I couldn’t stand up straight…” Before she could even finish the lie, my mother stood up and slapped me hard across the face. The force of the blow spun my head around. “I thought you were just quiet and traumatized,” my mother hissed, her eyes wild with rage. “But you’re malicious! Lena is my daughter. If you hate me for what happened, take it out on me! Don’t dare touch her!” She helped Lena to her feet, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders, and walked out of the store. Once again, I was left standing alone in the middle of a crowded mall. Just like I had been ten years ago. When my father finally came to pick me up hours later, he noticed the dark red swelling on my cheek. He paused, his expression tightening. “Lena is very sick, Julia, and your mother is constantly on edge about her health. You’re the older sister. You have to learn to be the bigger person and understand.” I looked out the window at the unfamiliar city streets, remaining silent. The moment we walked through the front door, we found my mother sitting rigidly on the living room sofa, her gaze locked onto me. “Julia, I’m not going to play games with you,” she said, her voice cold and hollow. “Lena needs a kidney transplant to survive. If it weren’t for her, I would have taken my own life years ago. If you want me to be your mother, you will give her your kidney. And you will stop treating her like an enemy.” I stared at her, the silence stretching between us for what felt like an eternity before I finally spoke. “My kidneys are already ruined. I can’t give them to her.” The living room went dead silent. My father’s face darkened instantly. “Julia, if you’re unwilling to help your sister, just say so. Don’t tell such a disgusting, selfish lie.” My mother’s reaction was far worse. She lunged forward, grabbing my wrist so tightly her perfectly manicured nails sliced into my skin. “I know you hate me for letting you get lost! If you want revenge, hurt me! Do not take it out on Lena!” “We aren’t waiting anymore. We’re going to the hospital right now!” She dragged me out the door, and my father silently grabbed his keys to drive us. On the way to the clinic, my mother dialed a number, her voice tight but composed. “The donor is ready. Prepare the operating room as quickly as possible.” I looked down at my hand. The faint red lines along my wrist had deepened into a dark, bruised violet. My fingers were beginning to lock up. The back of my mouth was growing numb. As the nurses began prepping me in the sterile pre-op room, I looked up at my mother, who was standing by the door. “Mom,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Can I have one of those red strings around your wrist?” My mother quickly covered her wrist with her hand, looking away. “After the surgery is over, I’ll buy you a real gold bracelet. Those red strings are cheap and worthless.” I stared at her, refusing to blink, trying to imprint the image of her face into my memory. “Mom… can you just hold me? Just once?” Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t move. “The pre-op area has to stay sterile, Julia. I’ll hold you when the surgery is finished.” They wheeled me into the surgical holding bay, and my mother’s face disappeared behind the heavy double doors. The dark violet lines began to spiderweb across my chest, and a sudden, agonizing pain ripped through every nerve in my body. In my fading consciousness, a memory flashed—my mother, ten years ago, running frantically through the mall, crying out my name over and over. I tried to scream, “Mom! I’m here! I’m right here!” But my tongue was gone. No sound came out. I ran toward her in the dark, reaching out to grasp the edge of her coat. But just as my fingers were about to touch her, she turned, reaching down to pull a pale, sickly little girl into her arms. “Mommy found you, Lena. You’re safe now.” In the holding bay, a nurse entered with a metal tray. “Julia? It’s time to head to the operating room…” A bloodcurdling scream suddenly shattered the quiet of the surgical wing. My mother’s heart stopped. An overwhelming, suffocating dread seized her chest, and she pushed past the nurses, running blindly toward the holding bay.

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On the day Julian’s first love, Clara, was getting married, he crashed the wedding with his fraternity brothers. He dropped to one knee. Under the shocked gazes of the guests, he spoke with absolute devotion: “Clara, I promise I will make you happy.” Before I could even process what was happening, Julian’s friends shoved me into the dressing room. They forced a bridesmaid dress onto me. “It’s an emergency. We can’t find a bridesmaid right now, so just do us a favor.” When I walked back out, I was wearing the bridesmaid dress, forced to watch my own husband embrace and kiss another woman. After the ceremony, Julian looked at my disheveled state and frowned. “Clara and I are only doing this for show. Nothing real will happen between us. Once things settle down with her family, I’ll throw you a much grander wedding.” I started laughing, but my eyes welled with tears. A wedding? I didn’t need one anymore. The guests whispered among themselves, and the church fell into chaos. “I’ve only seen this wedding-crashing drama in movies. This is wild.” “But wait, if I remember correctly, isn’t Julian already married?” “Married? No way. You’re just making things up.” Hearing those words, my eyes burned. When Julian and I got married, we didn’t have a wedding. He said he wanted to keep things simple. He hated pointless formalities. So, we just signed the papers at the courthouse and had a quick dinner with our families. Back then, I didn’t think anything of it. But today, at Clara’s wedding, Julian was holding a bouquet of red roses, proposing to the girl of his dreams. His eyes were filled with a deep, endless warmth and love. It was completely different from the cold, business-like attitude he had when we signed our marriage certificate. Julian walked over to me, grabbing my hand. He looked anxious. I was still hoping for an explanation, even a pathetic lie. But his next words chilled me to the bone. “Elena, Clara said her favorite thing in the world is hearing you play the violin. I want her to have the perfect wedding. Just do this for me, okay?” I took a deep breath, trying to suppress the suffocating pain in my chest. I looked him dead in the eye. “Julian, do you even have a heart? I am your wife, not some toy you can summon whenever you need a favor!” Julian’s face immediately darkened. He frowned, looking at me with deep annoyance. “Elena, can you stop being so unreasonable? Look at what’s happening. Can’t you just be mature for once? Do you want everyone here to laugh at Clara?” Then, his tone suddenly softened. “Elena, I promise you, this is the last time. I swear I won’t see Clara again after this. Just help me out one last time, please?” I gave him a cold look, brushed his hand off, and turned to leave. But in the next second, Clara’s voice echoed through the microphone. “Everyone, would you like to hear our talented violinist play a song for us?” Clara stood on the stage, smiling sweetly. The crowd erupted in cheers. “Wow, is that Elena? I haven’t heard her play in forever. I’m so excited!” “Don’t be shy, violinist! Get up there!” Before I could react, someone thrust a violin into my arms, and Julian pushed me onto the stage. I held the violin, standing in the dark corner of the stage. As the backing track slowly began to play, Julian and Clara began to dance gracefully in the center of the spotlight. A handsome man and a beautiful woman, dancing so perfectly together. They looked like they belonged in a fairy tale. As for me, I was nothing but an invisible, pathetic prop. When the song ended, the crowd clapped wildly. I held my violin and quietly walked off the stage. As soon as I got to the back, Julian and Clara caught up with me. “Elena, are you mad?” Clara placed her hand on Julian’s shoulder, her red lips curving into a smirk. “Elena, you know what Julian and I are like. There’s really no need to be jealous.” Those words felt like a thorn piercing deep into my heart. Julian and I had been together for five years. For those five years, Clara had always been around as his “best friend.” She always used the “just bros” excuse to hold his arm, lean on him, and behave with sickening intimacy. And I was always treated like an outsider, silently watching them. Every time I showed even a hint of displeasure, Clara would look at me with those innocent, tearful eyes. “Elena, we’re just like brothers. Why are you being so sensitive?” And Julian would always take her side, telling me to be more open-minded, saying it was just how close friends interact. If I expressed any discomfort, I was labeled as petty and dramatic. I bit my lip, took a deep breath, and looked at Julian. “I’m not mad. Carry on. I’m leaving.”

I was about to walk away when Clara grabbed my arm. She said, “Elena, can you do me one last favor?” With that, Clara pulled out a set of divorce papers from her clutch and slid them in front of me. “Elena, please just sign these pre-signed divorce papers with Julian. Once Julian and I get our license, my parents will stop forcing me into that arranged marriage.” My entire body froze. I looked at her in absolute shock. “You want me to divorce Julian?” Before I could finish, Clara put her hand on Julian’s shoulder again. “Julian, you tell her. Are you going to help me or not?” Julian’s brow furrowed. He looked at me, a hint of hesitation in his eyes. “Fine, whatever. If you won’t help, then don’t,” Clara huffed. “You’re so ungrateful. You just want to watch me get forced into marrying some old businessman! Hmph!” Hearing Clara’s words, I looked up at Julian. The hesitation in his eyes had instantly vanished, replaced by cold resolve. “Elena, let’s just help her out this once.” With that, he swiftly signed his name on the divorce papers and pressed his ink thumbprint onto the page. Staring at the papers, I felt numb. I couldn’t even remember how many times this had happened. He had abandoned my parents’ anniversary dinner because Clara sprained her ankle playing tennis. He had walked out of an important business meeting because Clara got into a bar fight and bruised her arm. He always had an excuse. And now, just to make Clara’s parents happy, he was willing to sign fake divorce papers with me. A bitter smile formed on my face, and my eyes stung with tears. Julian and I were high school classmates. He was the popular, untouchable golden boy, the brightest star in the room. And I was the quiet, invisible girl in the corner. After graduation, I thought we would never see each other again. But then he got down on one knee, holding a ring out to me with absolute devotion. “Elena, marry me. I will spend the rest of my life making up for all the time we lost.” I said yes. Even when my parents threatened to disown me, I took off my heels and ran to him barefoot. And now, we had come to this. My lips trembled as I asked him, “What if I don’t sign?” Julian pulled at his tie in irritation, his eyes turning cold. “Elena, don’t push it. I already told you it’s a fake divorce. Clara is just my friend!” Friend? He talked about this “friend” every single day. He remembered she loved mangoes, but forgot I was deathly allergic to them. He remembered she loved strawberry cake, but forgot I never ate sweets. He took care of his friend in every possible way, but forgot that I was the one on his marriage certificate. Seeing my silence, Julian softened his voice, trying to sound gentle. “Honey, please. I’m just helping Clara out. Once things settle down on her end, we’ll get remarried right away.” Just then, a group of angry men suddenly burst into the room. The leader pointed at Julian and yelled, “That’s the guy who crashed the wedding! Get him! Bring the bride back!” The moment the words left his mouth, the group rushed toward Julian and Clara.

Clara screamed in terror and instinctively hid in Julian’s arms. Julian shielded her tightly, kicking at the men who rushed them. Watching them cling to each other, a wave of bitterness washed over me. Although Julian could fight, he was outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed. “Who the hell do you think you are, taking her?” Julian yelled, holding Clara protectively, claiming his territory. “Clara belongs to me!” Hearing this, the men laughed mockingly. One of them sneered, “If I remember correctly, Julian, you’re already married.” “What? You trying to commit bigamy?” Clara looked at me with horror in her eyes. “Elena, if you don’t want to sign the papers, I won’t force you. But why did you call these people here? Do you really want them to drag me away that badly?” The moment she said that, Julian’s face turned incredibly dark. He glared at me with pure hatred. “Elena! Did you call these thugs? Are you trying to ruin Clara’s life? What did she ever do to make you hate her this much?” I was stunned by his roar. I frantically tried to explain. “It wasn’t me! I don’t even know who these people are! Why would I call them?” I tried my best to explain, but Julian didn’t believe a single word. He was convinced I was the mastermind, the malicious woman who wanted to destroy Clara. Once the security guards finally arrived and controlled the mob, Julian turned all his rage back on me. “I was only planning on a fake divorce. But now, you need to apologize to Clara. You won’t get remarried to me until you make her happy again.” Before I could say a word, he grabbed my hand and forced me to sign my name on the papers. But when it came to the ink thumbprint, I refused to press down. My hand hovered in the air, gripping the ink pad, refusing to move. Clara watched me stall and poked at the fire again. “Elena, Julian just has a temper. Don’t take it personally. I’ll talk to him later.” “Just do me a favor and sign it now. You’re embarrassing Julian in front of all these people.” Julian ignored Clara. His bloodshot eyes locked onto me, his voice freezing cold. “Elena, I’m giving you one last chance. Are you going to sign it or not?” I bit my lower lip so hard it almost bled. Seeing that I still wouldn’t budge, Julian completely lost his mind. He snatched a decorative knife from the cake table nearby and slashed it violently down toward my hand.

“Ah—!” The pain of severed flesh shot straight to my heart. My vision went black. Blood splurted out instantly, staining my hands and my dress crimson. My face went pale as my body convulsed in agony. But Julian acted as if nothing had happened. He casually wiped the blood off his hands with a napkin, grabbed my severed thumb, pressed it into the ink pad, and shoved it onto the paper. He let out a cold laugh, looking down at me. “Did you think you could stop me just by refusing to sign?” “Elena, don’t forget. I call the shots here.” In that moment, I finally saw him for what he truly was. The Julian I once loved was long gone. In his place stood a monster who would do absolutely anything for Clara. “Julian, are you insane? Do you know what you just did? Do you know how important her hands are to her?” “You just ruined her hand! How is she ever going to play the violin again?” Clara screamed, though she could barely hide the excitement in her eyes. I knew she was doing this on purpose to make me suffer more. I trembled as I looked up, my eyes locked onto Julian with pure, unadulterated hatred. Julian ignored me completely, turning around to lead Clara out of the room. “The divorce papers are signed. We can get our license next month. Tell your parents they don’t have to worry.” The door slammed shut. I was left entirely alone in the empty venue. The white bridesmaid dress soaked in my own blood was blinding, and the excruciating pain from my hand made my body shake uncontrollably. Before I completely blacked out, I reached out to touch my mangled hand. It hurt. It hurt so much… In my fading consciousness, I felt someone slowly approaching me. I tried to open my eyes to see who it was, but I didn’t even have the strength to lift my eyelids. The person knelt beside me, gently cupping my face. His voice was deep and cracked with emotion. “Was it really worth destroying yourself for a man like him?” I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t. But my lips parted, and no sound came out. The darkness slowly swallowed me whole. He sighed, gently lifting me into his arms. “Elena, let’s get out of here, okay?” His voice carried a strange, comforting magic. I couldn’t resist. I weakly nodded. The next second, I plunged into complete darkness.

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